


Siege

by FourCatProductions



Series: The Wheel, The Shield, The World [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Angst and Porn, Backstory, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Cultural Differences, Dirty Talk, Dragon Priests - Freeform, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Fantastic Racism, Frottage, Hate Sex, Light Masochism, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Skyrim Kink Meme, Thalmor, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unwilling Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-09-24 11:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17099630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: Captain Valmir's latest "volunteer" turns out to be more trouble than he's worth.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for a prompt on the Skyrim Kink Meme requesting a masochistic Thalmor agent paired with a rough 'n tumble Nordic beefcake. I wanted to use one of the lesser-known Thalmor in the game, and originally this was just porn, but it ended up becoming part of The Book of Love canon because of who I am as a person. This story and The Book of Love run concurrently, but you don't have to read one to follow the other.
> 
> (There's still porn, though.)

"You lied to me." The man's words come out in thick white clouds, stark against the slate-colored sky. The edge of his axe rests against Valmir's neck, his beard matted with blood and melted snow and his teeth bared. Valmir lays still. He's not in a position to do much else. His sword is buried in the snow somewhere nearby, blade snapped clean in half.

"Would you have helped me if I hadn't?"

Fierce eyes bore into him. "Most Thalmor I meet don't live long enough to ask me for anything." He nudges the axe against the soft golden skin of Valmir's throat, forcing his chin up. "What do you want with Rahgot's mask?"

"I have orders to retrieve it by any means necessary." If he cooperates, there's a chance he might still make it out alive. His captor could have killed him a dozen times by now. "I'm supposed to bring it to my superiors at Labyrinthian."

"Who are your superiors?" the man asks.

Valmir doesn't answer quickly enough, visions of Rulindil's dead-eyed stare flashing before him, and the blade bites at his neck. A thin line of blood wells up at its edge. "Ancano!" he yelps, despising himself for his weakness even as their names spill from his lips. "Ancano and Estormo. Agents stationed at the - "

"College of Winterhold," the man finishes for him, and spits on the ground. "Your superiors are dead."

"How do you know that?" Valmir demands.

The man laughs. "Because I killed them." He raises his axe, and Valmir waits for a blow that doesn't come. When he dares to look up, the man has shouldered his weapon, and is examining him with an intensity that borders on alarming. "You're coming with me, elf. We have some business to discuss."

It takes Valmir a moment. "Business? What business?"

The man reaches down with one massive hand and hauls Valmir to his feet as though he weighs nothing, trapping his wrists together. "You can come with me and find out, or you can stay here. Only difference is, with the first option you get to stay in one piece."

Valmir swallows. Hard. "I would be delighted to hear your proposition."

 

The man's name is Jerrik, Valmir learns on their way to the camp at the foot of the mountain. He's a boulder of a man, clad in burnished steel armor and wrapped in a bearskin cloak; seated in front of the fire, shadows warping his features, he appears more beast than human. _Brute,_ Valmir thinks spitefully. _Pathetic Nord dog_. Jerrik had bound his hands with a pair of silencing cuffs that sapped away at his magicka, leaving him sluggish and cold, and once in the tent he’d been left to crouch on the ground while his captor sat on the bedroll and made himself dinner. Humiliating, but a part of him can't help a begrudging flicker of respect. This human is proving much more formidable than the score of his brethren Valmir had sent to their deaths in Forelhost.

"What do you know about the mask?" Jerrik tears into a bloody hunk of venison, sandwiched between two pieces of toasted bread. Valmir tries not to stare longingly. "Tell me and I might let you have some."

"Nothing." His stomach growls. "I told you, my orders were to retrieve the mask and bring it to Labyrinthian. I presume I would have received further instruction from there."

"Hunh." Jerrik snorts. "Good to see that the Thalmor are as predictable as ever."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" 

"Sending a milkdrinker like you after a dragon priest's mask." He actually looks _disappointed_. "Guess they figure they can just keep throwing bodies at the problem until someone succeeds, just like you did."

Valmir sneers at him. "You're correct, in that I succeeded by having you retrieve Rahgot's mask for me."

"The mask is mine by right." Jerrik tears off another piece of his meal. Blood and grease drip from his lips into his beard. "If you think I ever intended to give it to you, you're a bigger fool than I thought."

"Then why bother playing along?" Valmir is cold, half-starved and captive, but part of him still remains confident that despite it, he can outwit this human. Jerrik may be cleverer than most of Skyrim's simple-minded natives, but Valmir is an Altmer, and therefore cleverer still. 

"Because I want to know how much the Thalmor know. Too bad you're proving useless on that front." One of Jerrik's enormous, scarred hands strays to the handle of his axe. "You don't want to be useless to me, elf."

They can agree on that much, at least. Valmir prefers his head attached to the rest of him. "That's your business proposal, then? I tell you what I know about the masks and you don't kill me?"

"More or less." Jerrik shrugs. "I'd rather have the actual locations, but I wouldn't expect someone like you to have that information."

"Someone like me," Valmir repeats.

"You know. Someone disposable."

The glint in Jerrik's eye suggests that he's riling Valmir up on purpose, and Valmir refuses to rise to the bait. He is a superiorly-bred mer, not a slave to his baser emotions like Men. He clears his throat. "There are eight masks - "

"Nine," Jerrik says. "There are nine."

Valmir tries, and utterly fails, to keep the surprise from his face. Nine? Elenwen and the rest of his superiors had only mentioned eight, and surely they weren't wrong. First Emissary Elenwen was never wrong. And even if she _were_ wrong - not that he would ever allow such an insubordinate thought take up residence in his mind - she wasn't to be questioned by someone of his station. Surely the Nord is testing him, or simply toying with him.

Jerrik chuckles, and rises. Valmir flinches despite himself. "Tell you what – I'll give you the night to think it over. See if you can come up with something I don't already know." Valmir doesn't answer, the tips of his ears hot with humiliated anger. Jerrik ducks outside the tent, and comes back a moment later with a rusted tin bucket full of slush and dirt, which he tosses on the fire. It goes out with a protesting hiss, leaving them in the dark. Jerrik's silhouette is edged in moonlight as he towers over Valmir. "You have until sunrise."

 

The night winds howl outside the tent, and inside, Valmir shivers. Jerrik had given him a thin woolen blanket so he didn't freeze to death, but the ground beneath him is cold, hard-packed dirt that saps whatever heat he might gain from it. His wrists are raw beneath the cuffs, and pain echoes along his skin whenever he moves. Sleep doesn't seem likely, but neither does coming up with an answer that might satisfy his captor. Nobody had bothered to tell him where he was to go after Labyrinthian. He supposes Ancano or Estormo might have, but they're both dead now. He glares at Jerrik's prone form, hatred leaving his gut sour and his fingers trembling. As soon as he gets free, he will take pleasure in torturing the man slowly, until he begs for death's sweet kiss.

A thought occurs to him, and he squints, trying to discern details in the darkness. Jerrik's axe is propped up in the corner of the tent, along with his pack, but a man like that is far too clever to sleep unarmed, especially when sharing close quarters with his enemy. He rolls flat onto his belly, arms braced on the ground in front of him, and bites back a hiss. It’s slow going, pausing every few seconds to make sure Jerrik is still sleeping, but he doesn't stir, aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Valmir inches closer, close enough to make out the handle of something strapped to Jerrik's belt - a hunting knife, or a dagger of some kind. Hope spurs him on. His fingertips brush the carved hilt. It feels like polished wood, or bone. If he stretches them out just a bit more, he can wrap his fingers around it and pull it free. _He_ can be free.

A hand grips the back of his neck.

"Don't even think about it," Jerrik says. His voice is soft. His palm is hot against Valmir's skin. The knife is right there. Valmir's fingertips are on the hilt, but his hands won't move. His heart pounds in his throat. "Go back to your side of the tent," Jerrik says, and his hand falls away.

Valmir moves away, slowly, until he's back in his original spot, huddled miserably under his blanket once more. Jerrik’s breathing slows, but Valmir isn't fooled. He rolls onto his back, trying to take the pressure off his aching wrists and shoulders, and stares up at the dingy canvas. He stays like that for a while, tired eyes burning, waiting for the axe to fall, but once again it doesn't come. Jerrik sleeps on.

Valmir's heart won't stop fluttering in his ribcage. The back of his neck burns like he's been branded. He swears he can still feel Jerrik's fingers digging into his skin. _Disgusting mongrel_ , he thinks, spite like a hot coal in his chest.

He barely sleeps that night, wracked with frustrated dread. When he does finally manage to doze off, he's woken not long after courtesy of an unceremonious boot to the ribs. Jerrik drags him outside, where the sun is cracking the horizon line, a sliver of gold against the pink-gray sky. He's forced onto his knees in the snow. The wind is harsh, and it makes the brittle dead branches overhead chatter like teeth.

"It's a beautiful morning to die." Jerrik leans over him. "But an even better morning to live." His axe rests on his shoulder, blade shimmering in the weak, milky light. Valmir retains his carefully sculpted expression - calm, blank, with just a hint of disdain - but his mind is racing, teetering on the edge of panic. This is not how it ends for him. His last moments are not going to be spent on this horrible, desolate mountain. "Last chance,” Jerrik says. “What do you know about the dragon priest masks?" Valmir stares at him, starving and exhausted, his mind churning uselessly, and Jerrik shrugs and hefts the axe, raising it high. "Fine, have it your way. One less Thalmor in the world."

"Wait! Just... wait a moment," Valmir croaks. A name floats up from the depths of his subconscious, and he grasps at it with desperate fingers. "There's a ruin not far from Markarth's outskirts... Valthume. The locals don't care to speak of it, but there are rumors if you listen. Supposedly a great evil lays buried there, and great treasure as well." He licks dry lips. "It's where I was assigned to investigate once Raghot's mask had been delivered to Labyrinthian."

It's a lie, of course. Commander Ondolemar had mentioned Valthume in one of his old reports, dismissing it as superstitious Nord nonsense. Valmir had come upon it while doing research to prepare for his mission in Forelhost, and mentioned it to Estormo, believing it to be of some interest. Estormo had disagreed. Vehemently.

Jerrik lowers the axe. "Tell me what you know about Valthume."

"Nothing substantial yet. _But_ ," Valmir adds hastily, "my superiors wouldn't send someone to investigate if they didn't believe it was worthwhile. I give you my word."

Jerrik studies him, taking in his hopeful expression. Then, he smiles. It's not a kind smile. Shivers trickle down Valmir's spine like sweat.

"Your word isn't worth horseshit. But, as it turns out, today’s your lucky day." He balls the front of Valmir's tunic in his fist and lifts him bodily to his feet, their faces scant inches apart. His breath is startlingly warm against Valmir's cheek. His eyes are dark blue up close, nearly black. Valmir sways in his grasp, Jerrik's knuckles digging into his chest. Patience, he reminds himself. His revenge won't be swift, but it will be all the sweeter if he takes his time. "You get to accompany me on an expedition."

"I don't suppose I have a choice in the matter?"

"What do you think?"

"Right. Of course not." Valmir is already feeling more confident. Jerrik still thinks he has the upper hand. And once Valmir has learned his secrets, he'll strike. He'll return to the embassy with the masks in hand, along with Jerrik's head. See if the Justiciars look down their noses at him after that, he thinks, flexing his stiff fingers. The First Emissary will finally see his true value, and the rest will follow.

Jerrik lets go of his tunic. "Time to pack up. It's a long trek from here to the Reach." He strides past Valmir, all business now, and ducks into the tent.

"You know," Valmir calls after him, "if you were to untie me, I might be of more use to you on that front."

"Oh, so that's why you were after my knife last night," comes the reply, muffled by the canvas. "To be _useful_." Valmir opens his mouth, then closes it with a scowl. Jerrik emerges, pack and bedroll slung over his free shoulder. "That's what I thought."

  _Soon_. A vicious satisfaction blooms in Valmir’s chest. He will watch the man burn.


	2. Two

Markarth is two weeks and a handful of days out of the Rift, if they don't stray off course or make any overnight stops along the way. Valmir figures he can use the time to figure out what Jerrik knows about the masks, but his captor isn't much for chatting. He drags Valmir down the mountain and over hill and dale without a word, and the cuffs around his wrists force him to keep up with the brutal pace. He didn't think he'd gone soft camping out at Forelhost, but as the day wears on, he's forced to rethink that assessment. They finally come to a halt on the shore of Lake Honrich, and Valmir's legs refuse to hold out any longer. He crumples to the ground, panting harshly. Every inch of him is drenched in sweat and grime and his chest is on fire.

"We'll stay in Riften for tonight," Jerrik says. He doesn't sound out of breath at all, the bastard. "I have business to conduct before we leave for the Reach." When Valmir doesn't respond, Jerrik prods his calf with the toe of his boot. "Get up.”

"Don’t touch me," Valmir snaps. He means it to be authoritative, but his voice wavers, reedy with exhaustion. Jerrik shakes his head and grabs the back of his tunic. Valmir struggles and kicks at him until Jerrik reaches down with his free hand and unlocks the cuffs, sending them clattering to the ground. Valmir stares down at them, his arms hanging uncertainly at his sides. A green vial is shoved into his hands. He fumbles and almost drops it, fingers still numb. 

"Drink it," Jerrik says. Valmir doesn't move, his eyes darting from the potion to the cuffs to the road past Jerrik's shoulder. "For fuck's sake, elf, if I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead a hundred times over by now. Drink the damn potion."

It makes sense, in an unpleasant way. Valmir drinks. It's foul and slimy on his tongue, but his exhaustion fades. His wrists are still bruised and scraped raw, and he runs his hands along them, healing what he can. If he'd been in the company of other Altmer, he would have suffered in silence until he found privacy, but Jerrik is a Nord, with no way to tell that Valmir's magical prowess is lacking. Not _lacking,_ he quickly amends his thoughts. He's just out of practice.

Woods surround them on all sides, festooning the border of the lake orange and gold. Water ripples peacefully behind them, pale green reeds waving along the shoreline, and mud squelches beneath Valmir’s boots when he turns around. The road they'd used to come down the mountain winds past their current position, all the way to the stables. If he were inclined to run, his options are limited at best: he can swim, or try to dodge off into the woods, but he suspects he won't get very far in either case.

"Enough sight-seeing," Jerrik says, and gives him a little shove back towards the path. He goes balefully, dragging his feet.

"We're going to the inn first," he says as they round the bend. A small camp sits at the crest of the hill to their right, a ragged band of Khajiit pitching tents and arranging their wares. The one stacking stones for the firepit watches them go by, ears perked up. "I need to eat."

He's expecting an argument - maybe even hoping for one - but Jerrik just looks amused. It's unsettling. "Suit yourself, then. I don't need you underfoot while I’m working."

"You're not going to threaten me with death or dismemberment if I try to escape?"

"Try not to sound so disappointed."

The guards let them in after a quick, private conference with Jerrik and whatever papers he'd produced. Valmir can feel their eyes burning into him through their helmets the entire time. He doubts they see Altmer lowering themselves to traveling with Nords very often, or at all, but whatever explanation Jerrik gives seems to satisfy their curiosity, and they're allowed to pass. Part of him wants to know what excuse was given for his presence, but his pride won't allow him to ask. It doesn't matter, he tells himself as the gates swing shut behind them. What they think is beneath him.

Riften reeks of fish. Valmir holds his breath until they're past the docks and the worst of the stench fades. He's only been here once before, to stock up on his way to Forelhost, but it's exactly as he remembers it - a lakeside hovel held up by rotting, waterlogged wood and crumbling stone. The shrieks of children and the chattering of birds fill the air, underscored by the creaking of the blacksmith's forge. It's dreadful, and Valmir's headache worsens. The faded sign that advertises the Bee and Barb swings as Jerrik opens the door. It's deserted this early in the day, save for a couple of patrons dining at the back table and a priest arguing with a mage on a bench along the far wall.

"Morning, Keerava," Jerrik rumbles to the Argonian behind the bar.

"Morning." Her gaze slides over Valmir, curious. At least, he thinks it’s curiosity. Argonians are impossible to read at the best of times. "Didn't think we'd be seeing you back so soon."

"Something came up. Any vacancies?"

"A few. How many rooms do you need?"

To Valmir's unending horror, Jerrik wraps a muscled arm around his waist and pulls him close, his own arm squished awkwardly between their bodies. He's left speechless. Nobody has ever dared exhibit this level of familiarity with him – it simply isn't done. But Jerrik's grip tightens, and he smiles like they're sharing a secret. "Just one."

 

" _One_ bed." Valmir jabs a finger at it, still shaking with rage. "Surely not!" 

"Sleep on the floor if it bothers you so much," Jerrik says calmly. He appears to think this is a reasonable solution. "All the rooms here are meant for bed-sharing, and I'm not letting you out of my sight overnight."

"Do you mean to tell me that there isn't a single room with more than one bed in this godsforsaken inn?"

"Most of the inns in Skyrim are like this. Sometimes there are three or four to a bed at once." He starts untying his burden from around his shoulders. "It's the old way. And it keeps you warmer in the winter."

"You're saying this is... customary." No wonder they were all so rank and louse-ridden.

"Do you think I'd lie for the privilege of bedding you?" Jerrik spits out  _privilege_ like it's anything but. "Guess I can't be surprised at a Thalmor thinking he's better than he is."

"So, what was the purpose of your little performance downstairs?"

"Better they think you're my bedmate than Thalmor, isn't it? Last thing I need is someone calling the guards on us." Jerrik piles his bedroll and bundled up furs at the foot of the bed, along with the smaller of his packs. The other, he keeps slung across his back.

If Valmir were to be honest with himself, he knows the Nord is right - what a horrifying sentence to utter, even in the privacy of his own mind! - and he needs the highest possible chance at survival if his plan is to succeed. But he still feels somewhat violated, and longs for a hot bath to scrub it away. "I almost think I'd prefer to be named Thalmor in a Stormcloak hold than let anyone harbor the illusion that I want you anywhere near me."

"Feel free to correct them." Jerrik points at him in silent warning. "I'll be back. Don't leave the inn. If you do, I’ll find you." He leaves the door open on his way out, and Valmir slams it shut on the sound of his retreating footfalls. It's not nearly satisfying enough.

Out of revenge, he starts rifling through Jerrik's things. There’s a squashed packet containing dried fruit and meat of some kind, gamy and oversalted, and a half-empty waterskin. He eats as much of it as he can stomach, then washes it down with the water while he finishes his investigation. A few strips of leather, a change of clothing, a blank roll of paper and a stick of charcoal; nothing exciting or noteworthy. He does find a copy of a book called An Explorer's Guide to Skyrim, which he thumbs through while eating the rest of the dried fruit, but there's nothing about dragon priests. Unsurprising, really.

He tosses it aside and folds himself onto the bed, long legs scrunched up like an overturned beetle. The mattress is thin and the blanket is scratchy, but after camping out on the side of a mountain for weeks on end, it feels like a luxury. Of course, it's all a trick of perception. No doubt his captor is trying to lure him into a false sense of security. But for whatever reason, he hasn't seen fit to kill Valmir yet. Either he suspects Valmir is holding out on him, or he's planning on using him as bait for any potential nastiness once they reach Valthume. If he had been someone else, Valmir might have found the reversal of their situation amusing. 

 _Enough of this_ , he tells himself. If being useful is what it takes, he'll make sure Jerrik finds him useful. At least, until he can determine the extent of the man's knowledge.

He gets up and washes his face in the basin, sloughing as much of the grime from his skin as he can, and runs his damp hands over his head. His hair is growing out, not having had access to a mirror or razor in quite some time, and it's uneven and tacky with sweat. He finger-combs it to lay back as best he can, then meanders downstairs to the bar. Riften has a more diverse population than some of Skyrim's cities, and it's for this reason alone that he dares to venture out by himself. Last time he'd come through, he'd seen a Bosmer in noble's clothing arguing with a Dunmer merchant at one of the stalls, next to a Nord and an Argonian hawking their wares. One lone Altmer is unlikely to cause a fuss. He sits on the stool closest to the wall, and the Argonian innkeeper eyes him, wary, as she polishes a tankard with a rag that's seen better days. He suppresses a shudder and gives her his most charming smile, along with the coin he’d pilfered from Jerrik’s purse.

"Wine, if you have it." She plunks a bottle and a chipped tankard onto the bar in front of him, and the gold disappears into her scaly fist. He waits until he finishes most of his first cup before trying to get her attention again. "I've heard that innkeepers are the ones to talk to him if you want to know something."

"Depends on what you want to know," she rasps. 

"Nothing unsavory, I assure you." He takes another sip of wine. "Do you know anything about the dragon priests of Skyrim? Or where I might find information about them? I'm researching some of the local history." She looks at him blankly, and he realizes that perhaps asking an Argonian about the nuances of Nordic history is a fruitless endeavor. He tries again. "Dragon priests. Haunted burial mounds. Unusual activity in large tombs, that sort of thing."

"Old Wilhelm up in Ivarstead's been ranting about the burial mound outside town for months now. Can't help you with the rest. Nords say everything to do with the dragons was wiped out centuries ago." She shrugs and starts wiping down the bar again. "Then again, I heard Helgen was attacked by a dragon last week, so who knows?"

"A _dragon_?" Valmir nearly chokes on the last of his wine. "Do you really believe that?"

"Doesn't matter," she says sharply, and refuses to meet his eyes. "If you want to know about Skyrim's history, go to the College of Winterhold. That's all I can tell you."

By her tone, it's clear she's done with the conversation, and Valmir is done trying to converse with someone so far beneath him. He takes the decanter and wanders back upstairs. The wine here tastes like fermented piss compared to the delicately spiced flavors of the wine at the Embassy, but Valmir lays on the bed and drinks and drinks until it runs down his chin and stains his lips and there's nothing left.

Jerrik returns just as evening is beginning to fall, toting several oddly-shaped packages. He shakes Valmir from his stupor by dumping one of them directly onto his chest. "Put those on."

It turns out to be clothing, and Valmir sniffs at the tunic and breeches disdainfully. They smell like lye. "This is the best you can do?"

"It’s the best you get. Get dressed so I can get dinner."

Valmir grits his teeth and gets off the bed, because he can't keep wearing Legion colors in a hold full of Stormcloak supporters. As if the locals need another reason to hate him on sight. "Fine. Turn around."

He's expecting some sort of jab at his modesty, but Jerrik crosses his arms and turns his back without argument. He'd taken off his helmet when he'd come in, and a thick black plait spills halfway down his back. Valmir keeps his own white hair shorn close to the scalp. Nords seem to revel in their hairiness; take pride in it, even. That sensation of the familiar grips him again, nagging at the back of his mind. He ignores it and finishes stripping out of his armor. The tunic is a little too big and the breeches a little too short, but the boots fit well enough. It’s better than nothing.

They go downstairs for dinner. Jerrik orders mead, roast pheasant, and two bowls of stew, one of which he hands to Valmir. "Don't need you collapsing on me."

Valmir takes it without comment and sits at the nearest table. Jerrik eats like all Nords eat, shoveling food into his mouth like he thinks it's going to leap off the plate and escape. Valmir ignores him and eats slowly, waiting for his opportunity. It comes after they've finished and gone back to the room. Jerrik sinks into the chair in the corner and uncorks his second bottle of mead, and Valmir waits until he's begun drinking to speak. "I've decided that you and I should be business partners."

Jerrik chokes mid-swallow, and Valmir savors the sight of him coughing and pounding on his chest, face red. " _You've_ decided," he gasps, once he's gotten enough of his breath back to speak. 

"Yes. Despite our circumstances, I'm choosing to see this as an opportunity." He leans back in his own chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "One that's mutually beneficial."

"That doesn't tell me why I shouldn't just gut you for being more trouble than you're worth."

"I can get you into the College of Winterhold. That's why." It's a gamble on his part, but the look that flashes across Jerrik's face tells him he's struck gold. "How you managed to lure Ancano off the grounds, I have no idea. But I can assume he thought he'd be returning, so his belongings are most likely still there." He pauses to watch comprehension dawn.

"You think he had information about the masks?"

"I'm saying there's a reason I was told to report to him. And the wizards at the College have no reason to suspect one of his associates, come to retrieve his possessions after his untimely disappearance." 

"And what do you get out of this? Besides staying alive."

"In exchange for helping you track down the remaining masks, I want half of whatever profit we turn in the process." He wants nothing but the man’s head, but it’s a necessary part of the lie. Jerrik has to think him greedy. Greed is a motivation he’ll believe.

" _Half -_ "

"Are you aware of what the Thalmor do to traitors, perceived or otherwise? You can keep the masks, but I expect adequate compensation for the service I'm about to provide you."

"You're serious," Jerrik says, after an uncomfortable pause.

"I am."

"And I'm supposed to believe you've had a change of heart." He snaps his fingers. "Just like that."

Valmir has always been a talented liar. A good lie contains a seed of truth at its core, and he'd discovered early on that living as though he believed the lie nurtured that seed until it bloomed and eventually became indistinguishable from the truth. It's still a struggle for him to say the next few words. "It's not worth dying over."

"The other Thalmor I've met don't share that sentiment."

"Yes, and look where it's gotten them." Jerrik's mouth twitches into what might be a smile. "Listen to me, Nord, and listen well. I've only decided to help you because the alternatives leave something to be desired. When you have the masks, you'll no longer have need of me, and I want to leave this wretched land behind as soon as possible." He looks down his nose at Jerrik, lifts one thin brow. "Have I made myself clear?"

Jerrik meets his gaze evenly, not intimidated in the slightest. The worst part about dealing with Nords, by Valmir's estimation, is that they refuse to see the extent of their own inferiority. 

"Alright, elf. You get your hands on his findings, and I might start to think you're worth keeping around." He sticks his hand out - big, callused, dirt under the nails - and Valmir stares down at it, trying not to recoil. "Shake on it."

"This is unnecessary physical contact and I object to it. _Strenuously_." But he puts his hand in Jerrik's all the same.

"Your objection has been noted. Now shut up."

They shake on it.

 

Once the new route has been mapped out - north, past Windhelm to the College, and then west along the coast until they cut inland to bypass Solitude for the Reach - and the inn is silent, most patrons abed, Valmir sleeps in the chair. Or rather, he tries sleeping in the chair for as long as he can stand it, but his back aches and his legs cramp up, and this is how he ends up crammed between Jerrik and the wall, trying not to let their bodies touch. Jerrik had stayed mostly clothed at Valmir's insistence, but at some point he’d sprawled on his back and starting snoring, one arm tucked behind his head. Valmir contemplates Muffling him, but he's too tired to concentrate on a spell properly. He rolls over and jabs at Jerrik's ribs with his elbow. The snoring continues. He pushes at Jerrik's side, but it's like trying to move a mountain. Another shove, harder this time, and suddenly his wrist is snagged in a bruising grip. His breath catches.

"What?" Jerrik's voice is thick with sleep.

Valmir tries to pull free, but Jerrik’s hand tightens, blunt fingertips digging into his skin. He stifles a grunt of pain. "Let go of me. And quit snoring!" 

Jerrik has the nerve to tilt his face to Valmir's, their noses nearly brushing. His breath crawls along Valmir's neck. "Disturbing your beauty sleep, am I?"

There's that disturbing flash of recognition again. Jerrik is nothing; he's lower than nothing. He shouldn't remind Valmir of anyone. The hold on his wrist slackens, and he snatches it back and rolls over to face the wall, seething. After a moment of silence, the bed groans and sags as Jerrik rolls onto his side. Valmir slides into the valley of the shifting bed, his back colliding with Jerrik's. He jerks away like he's been scalded and huddles as close to the wall as he can get. _Nords run hot_ , his brain notes unhelpfully. At least the snoring had stopped. 

But the silence leaves space for his thoughts, and soon they all come flooding in at once, a torrent of anxiety and doubt. Bringing the masks and his captor to the First Emissary had seemed glamorous when he'd first conceived his plan, but in the cold light of the moons, he isn't sure it'll be enough to erase the stain of having been captured and held prisoner, or of having compromised his mission. No matter how he spins it, this whole operation rests on an increasingly risky series of assumptions - that he can successfully act as a double agent, that Ancano's things are still at the College, that said success will outweigh his previous failures. But what other choice does he have?

Choice is something he's never had much of to begin with. His station – and with it, the limits of his potential – had been determined before he was born. He will never be a Kinlord, or even an Emissary. If he is prudent and loyal, and manages to survive this endeavor, he may make a Justiciar yet. But anything beyond that is inexorably barred to him, a locked door for his fruitless ambitions to batter against. And now death lays next to him in bed, and something far worse awaits him in Solitude if he returns empty-handed. But his chance to prove himself - a chance he has clawed and prayed and schemed to get - is finally within reach. Provided, of course, that he can play the game and win. He presses his forehead against the cool stone wall. _Sleep now_ , he tells his tired body. _In the morning, we begin again._

It's still dark when they wake. They eat before they go, and Jerrik leaves Valmir to dress while he goes to the stables. He'd found some cheap armor to replace Valmir’s old gear, made mostly of hide and padded leather. The Imperial kit is tougher, but it's no longer an option, so he buckles on the new armor and fastens the cloak around his neck. There's also a sword and scabbard belt, and relief warms him as the familiar weight settles on his hip, tinged with shame. His preference for physical weapons over magic makes him little better than a foot soldier in the eyes of his peers, something he is all too aware of. It's not forbidden, and it has its uses, but they consider him uncouth because of it. Lower class. What they can't accomplish with manipulation of the mind or political strategy, they manage by reducing their opponents to bloodless piles of ash. Valmir's hands are stained with blood, and no matter how hard he strives to climb that invisible barrier between him and the others, one foot remains planted firmly in obscurity. Despite all this, he takes comfort in the sword. Perhaps it's an insult to arm one's enemies so freely, but for the moment, they're closer to allies, or so the illusion goes. He meets Jerrik down at the stables.

Jerrik has purchased two horses, already saddled and tacked, and he hands the reins of the smaller one to Valmir without a word. They mount, and Valmir stares at the path, swallowed up by the foggy, pre-dawn morning. It's too early for birds to sing, and the silence presses in on them from all sides, thick and smothering. He's never acted on his own like this. He shouldn't be so eager, part of him admonishes. He shouldn't presume to know the extent of his usefulness better than the First Emissary. He shouldn't be so set on proving them wrong. But this isn't _for_ himself, he argues, though who he's arguing with he doesn't know. He's acting for the glory of the Thalmor. There's a kind of hollowness to the words that he doesn't want to think about, and so he repeats them in time with his own heartbeat, until they fill his head so there's no room for anything else.

_Glory to Auri-El, and glory to the Thalmor. Glory be._

Jerrik clicks his tongue, urging his horse into a trot, and together they vanish into the waiting mouth of the fog.


	3. Three

"It's interesting," Jerrik says, after they’ve been riding for some time. "Your superiors either don't realize Ancano and his pet are dead, or they don't care enough to reassign you."

"Either way, I can assure you that it's none of your concern."

The terrain has slowly changed over the last few miles, growing sparse and barren when compared to the autumnal lushness of the Reach. The trees are hunched and gray, and the air is full of sulfur, thick and muggy. The horses' hooves kick up clouds of dust that linger, following them down the road, and creep cluster and jazbay grow wild across the stone. They're in the heart of Stormcloak territory now. If Valmir's calculations are correct, they'll pass Windhelm before sundown. He almost wishes he still had his Stormcloak officer's uniform, but Jerrik had made him get rid of it along with the Legion armor. He slouches in the saddle.

"It doesn’t bother you that they don't give a shit whether you're alive or dead?"

"Your insistence on addressing me as an equal is far more concerning." Jerrik snorts, and Valmir shoots him a glare. "As are your pathetic attempts to divine what beings so far beyond your station might be thinking."

"All I'm hearing is, 'Jerrik, you should have killed me up at Forelhost before I became a massive pain in your arse'."

 _Do it then_ , Valmir almost says. But he's not foolhardy enough to think his newfound usefulness might supersede their hatred of one another forever, so he swallows the words and faces straight ahead, and neither of them says anything until Windhelm is behind them and the sun is melting over the snowy horizon.

"We'll stop soon," Jerrik calls out. The wind is starting to pick up. "The horses need a break."

Valmir needs rest too, back and thighs sore from being in the saddle all day, so he doesn't protest when Jerrik finds an abandoned bear den a little way from the road. It's dry, at least, which is more than he can say for the rest of their surroundings. They're barely an hour north of Windhelm and there's already snow on the ground. He builds a fire while Jerrik tends to the horses, and they eat a plain meal in silence, each of them lost in his thoughts. Jerrik undoes his damp braid when he's finished and combs out his hair with his fingers. Valmir watches him out of the corner of his eye. He’d taken off his cuirass and gauntlets when they'd first settled in, but he doesn't look any less dangerous half-armored. He twists his hair up into a messy knot at the back of his head, and when he turns to grab more dried meat from his pack, Valmir sees the mark on the back of his neck. He can't make it out from his current position, but it looks like a tattoo. His curiosity gets the better of him.

"What's that on your neck?"

Jerrik doesn't answer, and Valmir's interest only grows. Perhaps he's inadvertently discovered a weakness. Jerrik shifts away before he can try to get a better look at it, and chews on the jerky, ignoring him.

"Something embarrassing?"

Still nothing.

"Illegal, maybe," he hedges, hoping for some sort of reaction. Then again, maybe he shouldn't be so hopeful. It doesn't flatter him to be the prisoner of a man stupid enough to tattoo a symbol of Talos on himself.

Jerrik finishes his mouthful and sighs. He looks disappointed for a split second, which Valmir is sure he imagines, because it's almost immediately replaced by irritation. "Do you want to know the one good part about traveling with you?"

"Do I?"

"You don't care." Jerrik looks at him pointedly. "You don't care about me, or my past, or anything except that I continue to let you live. Don't ruin that for me."

So he'd been right, Valmir notes. For whatever reason, Jerrik doesn't want him - or anyone, presumably - to see it. He drops the subject, but early the next morning, he sneaks a look while Jerrik is still sleeping. It's nothing he recognizes, just a circle with two crude horns jutting from it. He feels slightly cheated.

 

They arrive in Winterhold late the next day, which is less of a city than a random assortment of shabby wooden buildings clumped together on the side of a mountain, and the first thing they see is a man and a woman arguing in the middle of the road. They're too far away to hear any of it, but after a minute the woman throws her arms skyward and shouts something unintelligible, and the man stalks off into the inn, door slamming behind him. She storms off in turn, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. Valmir looks up past the rooftops to see the College perched precariously at the top of a cliff, casting its shadow over Winterhold. He hates mages. He nudges his mount with his heels and they trot over to the hitching post outside the inn, where Jerrik has already dismounted. Theirs are the only tracks into town. Soon they'll be wiped away, covered by snow, as will the footprints of the man and the woman in the street, like none of them were ever there to begin with.

Jerrik finishes tying his horse's reins to the post and disappears inside. Valmir slides out of the saddle to stretch his legs, trying to ignore the chill clawing at his exposed neck and ears, and Jerrik comes back shortly with a room and a key to the stables around the side of the inn. Valmir leaves him to finish caring for the horses and slinks inside. Warmth embraces him, his skin aching as it thaws, and he collapses into the chair closest to the fireplace, shivering. Jerrik joins him not long after, holding two enormous flagons of something hot. He shoves one into Valmir's hands.

"Shape up. You have a job to do."

"I'm well aware of that, you cretin." Valmir sips cautiously at his drink, and nearly coughs it all down his front when steam goes up his nose. It's mead, sweet enough to make his teeth itch, but it goes down easily enough and warms him from the inside out. He forces himself to keep drinking it. "Not that you've made it any easier to succeed."

"What are you talking about?"

Valmir gestures at himself - the mismatched armor, the hair matted to his scalp with sweat and melted frost, the grimy sheen of his golden skin. "No self-respecting Justiciar would allow himself to be seen in this state."

Jerrik takes a long drink of his own mead, then sets the cup down on the little wooden table between them and laces his fingers together. "You know, this whole endeavor is going to go a lot more smoothly if you accept that I'm not as stupid as you want me to be." Valmir can think of approximately thirty-seven retorts to such a ridiculous statement, each of them more cutting than the last, but before he can settle on one, Jerrik stands up. "Downstairs. Let's go." 

Valmir hadn't realized there was a second floor. He finishes his drink with a grimace and follows Jerrik through the door next to the bar. The innkeeper glances after them, disinterested. Downstairs is a huge stone room that was most likely a cellar at some point, but had since been remodeled into a heated bath, big enough to hold six full-grown Men and flanked by privacy screens. Valmir tries, and fails, to hide his surprised relief. Jerrik's already unbuckling his chest plate. "Mage that lives upstairs set this up a while back. You elves do like to be clean."

"And I suppose being covered in dirt and fleas is preferable," Valmir says. Jerrik's tunic hits the floor along with his cuirass and gauntlets, and he starts undoing his greaves before Valmir can make sense of what he's seeing. He slaps his hand over his eyes and turns around, words turning bitter on his tongue. "You really have no shame to speak of, do you?"

"Nothin’ to be ashamed of," Jerrik says. There's the sound of more buckles scraping against leather, metal hitting the floor, and then a splash, followed by water sloshing against stone. Valmir takes his hand from his eyes and ducks behind one of the privacy screens. His heartbeat doesn't feel right. It's too fast. He starts undoing his own armor.

"I'd have gotten naked a lot sooner if I'd known you were this easily intimidated."

Jerrik’s voice carries over the partition, and Valmir fumbles with the last of his clothing. _If you try to stab him now, you'll actually have to look at him_ , he reminds himself.

"Shut up and turn around."

"I promise you, your virtue is safe from me."

It's one comment too far. Valmir stomps out from behind the screen, prepared to tell him to keep his disgusting insinuations to himself, but Jerrik has his back turned. It's broad and scarred, wet hair plastered black against the muscle, and the water barely covers his thick waist or the swell of his ass and Valmir's mouth goes dry. He bites his tongue and climbs into the bath, turning around so he doesn't have to keep looking. There are little cakes of soap that smell like snowberries on the stand next to the bath, and he scrubs at his skin until it smarts and the soap is just a sliver in his hand.

Behind him, he can hear Jerrik lathering up his hair. "You can buy a razor off the innkeeper," he says, as though it's perfectly normal to converse with someone while naked. "If you want to do something about your hair."

"How would you know?" Valmir asks nastily.

Jerrik just laughs, and water ripples around Valmir's thighs as he submerges his head. "You have an issue with my hair?"

Yes, Valmir wants to say, but that implies he spends enough time thinking about it for it to be an issue, so he doesn't say anything. He wants to strangle Jerrik with his own braid. He wants to bury his fingers in it, take fistfuls of it and _yank_ until Jerrik is forced to retaliate -

"I don't care," he chokes out.

He stays in the bath for a long time after Jerrik leaves, until he's light-headed from the heat.

 

There's a brand-new Justiciar's uniform laying on the bed in their room when he finally comes upstairs, clean and freshly shorn, and at first he thinks maybe he's hallucinating. Maybe he passed out and hit his head on the bath. But when he touches it with a reverent hand, the material is crisp against his fingertips, gold-threaded edges glistening against a black field.

"May as well look the part," Jerrik says from his seat in the corner. Fortunately, he's dressed. "You're welcome."

"Where did you get this?" 

Jerrik gives him a look. "Do you really want to know?"

Valmir does not, in fact, want to know. He makes Jerrik leave the room while he gets dressed. The robes fit him snugly, the boots are the right size, and when he pulls on the sleek black gloves and puts his hood up, a tangle of emotions surround him. He's elated, even as a part of him reminds him that he shouldn't be wearing it; he's impersonating an officer above his rank and he's never felt so powerful, or so much like a fraud all at once. He shakes off his discomfort. It's only for a few hours. Why not enjoy himself? He smooths his hands down his front, flattening imaginary imperfections, and draws himself up to his full height, chin raised and a faint sneer on his lips. He will command their respect, even if only for a short while.

"Are you done preening?" Jerrik pokes his head through the doorway. "We don't have all day."

“Quiet.” Valmir pivots to face him. "Justiciar Cyrelian offers his deepest and most sincere regrets at Ancano's passing."

"Huh." Jerrik scratches at his beard. He looks deeply unimpressed. Not that it matters, but - 

"What is it? Not convincing enough for you?"

"No." Jerrik’s gaze is flat. "You're definitely Thalmor."

 

Master Wizard Mirabelle Ervine has sharp eyes and a suspicious demeanor, and if he were staying for more than an hour, Valmir would make note to watch out for her. He's certain she gave Ancano no end of grief during his tenure. "What did you say your name was again?"

"Justiciar Cyrelian." He folds his hands behind his back. "I've been sent by the First Emissary to collect whatever belongings Ambassador Ancano left behind." For this assignment - it helps to think of it as an assignment - he's borrowed his persona from Rulindil. Implacable, unreadable, and like his very existence is a favor to those around him. As though he's the one being inconvenienced by speaking with them, which isn't far from the truth. He reasons that they won't ask very many questions if they’re eager to be rid of him.

Mirabelle purses her lips. "Yes, well. Faralda, let him in."

"Fine." The Altmer sorceress guarding the entrance steps aside. He notes her coppery hair and the golden-brown tint of her skin, and he gives her a knowing look as he passes by. She doesn't say anything, but her eyes cut into his back as he follows Mirabelle up the walkway. 

"You'll have to forgive me for rushing you," she says over her shoulder, in a tone that suggests she requires no such thing. "But I have much to attend to today, so this will have to be brief."

"You're forgiven," Valmir says smoothly.

Mirabelle's voice is colder than the ice frosting the spire. "We expected someone much sooner."

Valmir looks down his nose at her. It's not a difficult feat. She only comes up to his chest. "The Thalmor are very busy, Miss Ermine. We can't be trekking all over the province for every trivial bit of business at a moment's notice. I'm sure you understand."

"It's Ervine," Mirabelle says through her teeth. "Come this way, please." Valmir hides a smile and follows her through the main grounds to the Hall of Attainment, where Ancano had been staying. "Try to make it quick, if you would," she says as they come to a halt in front of the room. It's small and shabby, more like a broom closet with no door than a proper room. Valmir is almost outraged on Ancano's behalf. "We're very busy."

 _I don't have time to watch you all day and make sure you're not up to anything_ , is the unspoken accusation. Valmir ignores her and steps into the room. It looks like it hasn't been lived in for some time - there's already dust clinging to most surfaces, and no personal items to be found, save for the book sitting on the nightstand, a ribbon draped between its pages. He spends a few minutes rifling through the drawers and wardrobe and finds nothing of value, so he turns his attention to the book. When he reads the title, a little frisson of triumph grips him. He tucks it under his arm and turns his attention to the locked chest at the foot of the bed. It looks heavy, and he wishes he'd thought to bring a potion or an enchantment to make carrying it easier. 

_If you could use Alteration like the rest of them, carrying this would be no problem. You could make it light as a feather._

He sets his jaw and outs the book on top of it, then picks it up by the handles. His arms begin to strain almost immediately. Mirabelle's eyebrows twitch upward, but she refrains from commenting. "So sorry to rush you."

"Not at all." He smiles. It feels like his shoulders are about to dislocate. It's not his most convincing smile. "So sorry to have troubled you."

Mirabelle can't seem to get him to leave the grounds fast enough. He wonders if her rush is motivated by something other than general dislike, but he's too busy pretending he's not in pain to examine that thought further. "Should we be expecting a replacement for Ancano?" she asks while she watches him lug the chest across the threshold. 

"That's for the First Emissary to decide," Valmir says. It's true enough. "But rest assured, you'll be hearing from us sometime soon."

"Lovely to meet you," Mirabelle says, and the gate slams in his face.

The half-breed sorceress watches him go smugly from her post. Neither of them are worth his energy, he knows, but that doesn't stop him from spinning an elaborate fantasy about being assigned to the College as the new "goodwill ambassador" while he trudges back to the inn. He's come up with at least ten different ways to make life miserable for everyone there by the time he reaches the porch, and there's no one looking, so he lets the chest crash onto the wood and shakes out his arms and numb fingers, wincing. His muscles are on fire. _What was Ancano doing, collecting scrap metal?_ A pair of guards come around the corner on patrol, and he takes a deep breath, picks up the chest, and drags himself inside before they can look at him too closely.

"Back already?" Jerrik asks when Valmir comes into the room. He doesn't look up from the book on his lap until Valmir drops the chest with a heavy _thunk._

"They were eager to see me go."

"Really? Can't imagine why."

Valmir picks up the book he'd found in Ancano's room and throws it. To his credit, Jerrik doesn't flinch. The book hits the wall next to his head and falls open on the comforter. "Quit being smug and take a look at that."

Jerrik picks it up and flips it shut, turning it over in his hands. He whistles. " _The Dragon Cults of the North_. Ancano, you power-hungry bastard, I knew it." He nods at the chest. "What's in there?"

"It's locked. I couldn't find a key." Valmir grimaces. "Didn't you find one when you, I assume, looted his corpse?"

"If I had, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?" Jerrik gets up, picks up the chest with seemingly no effort, and sets it on top of the dresser so he can take a better look at it. Valmir massages his shoulder and reminds himself that he has no reason to be envious of a sentient packmule. "Doesn't look like he bothered with any enchantments, but I'm out of lockpicks."

He crouches down and squints at the lock, then rattles it for good measure. His axe is leaning against the wall nearby, and when he stands up and reaches for it, Valmir takes a step back instinctively. "What are you doing?"

"Picking the lock."

"But you just said - " Jerrik raises the axe, measuring the distance, then cleaves downward in one decisive motion. Metal screeches against metal with a burst of sparks, and the lock pops off, along with a generous chunk of wood. "Ah." Valmir half-expects the innkeeper to come investigate the noise, but the door stays closed.

"He's heard worse," Jerrik says, like he'd read Valmir's thoughts. "Help me sort through all this."

The chest turns out to be full of various effects - quills and empty inkwells, three vials of a potion meant to restore magica that Valmir pockets, a spare set of linens, flattened scrolls of blank parchment - but nothing of value. The real discovery comes when they dig it all out to discover a seam for a false bottom to the chest. Beneath the wood is a layer of ingots, silver and gold, and three scrolls sealed with wax. Valmir's mouth actually starts watering. "Half of those are mine," he reminds Jerrik, who waves him off impatiently.

"Fine, fine. Shut up and take one of these." They sit at the table and crack the seals so they can peel them off without damaging the parchment. Jerrik unrolls his first, frowns, and looks it over a second time, eyes skimming the surface. "This is gibberish."

Valmir unrolls the other two and lays them across the table, side by side. His heart lurches sickeningly. They're covered in drawings and symbols, and Ancano's handwriting is legible enough, but the words don't make any sense. "They must be in code," he says, hoping his voice doesn't betray his desperation. Jerrik's gaze flits from him to the paper and back again.

"Let's hope so."

The notes are, in fact, encoded - a fact that takes approximately two minutes to discover after Valmir holds a flame over the page and watches a series of dots and dashes appear under certain letters, ink glimmering in the light. "Invisible ink," he sniffs. "Well, I suppose nobody ever accused Ancano of being creative." 

"Your masters aren't known for encouraging individual creativity," Jerrik says. He's sitting across the table, watching the proceedings. "In case you weren't aware."

"I beg to differ. Our interrogators are exceedingly creative." 

Jerrik's mouth tightens, but he doesn't say anything. Valmir returns to his work.

It's a basic encryption, nothing he shouldn't be able to crack, but he's rusty and there's no discernible pattern to which letters have been substituted for one another. The spare parchment quickly fills with rejected solutions and the occasional scribbled note to himself. Jerrik watches him, and it should be unsettling, but Valmir finds that he doesn't mind. He’s distracted by the realization that he might actually be enjoying himself. He used to enjoy his work, he remembers now. It feels like a lifetime ago, or like it happened to someone else, back before things had become so complicated. He stops to drink some water and pores over the notes again, frowning.

"Strange..."

"What is?"

Valmir hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. "As far as I know, Ancano had no formal training in encryption or code-breaking, but I've tried all the most common solutions and so far, nothing." He scratches his scalp. It feels good to have his hair short and neat again. "I suppose it's possible he read up on it while he was stationed at the College, but still..."

"You've done this before," Jerrik says.  

"Yes," Valmir says, too preoccupied to mock him. "I got my start decoding enemy messages while I was stationed in Valenwood." He finishes his water and goes back to the task at hand, quill scratching along the parchment. "Eventually, it got me promoted, and I was sent here instead." When he looks at it like that, it actually seems rather bleak. Is his life really so easily reduced to a footnote? He scowls at the paper and tosses the quill down. He needs to focus, stop letting Jerrik get into his head. "I had more tools to work with back in Valenwood, obviously. This is essentially nothing. I don't even have my code book - "

 _The book._ He stands up straight with such force that his chair tips backwards. How could he have been such a fool? 

 _The Dragon Cults of the North_ is laying on the bed where Jerrik left it, innocuous. Valmir snatches it up and brings it back to his seat. Jerrik props his chin in his hand and watches. His expression is calm, but below the table, his leg bounces restlessly. It's tedious work, going through each page one at a time to check for invisible ink, and with each unsuccessful pass over the flame, Valmir's heart threatens to sink into the pit of his stomach all over again. But then he reaches the index, and one, two, three torturous beats after fire kisses the parchment, dots and dashes bloom in its wake. Valmir collapses back in his chair and tosses the book onto the table in front of Jerrik, triumphant. "Numbers. It was numbers."

"Will you look at that." Jerrik isn't smiling, exactly, but he isn't frowning anymore, either, and his eyes shine with renewed interest. "What does that make Ancano's notes, then?"

Valmir almost laughs, relief lighting him up inside like the summer sun. "Give me a bit more time and you'll find out."

Several minutes later, he sets his quill down. This time, he does laugh.

"It's a list."

"A list of _what_?" Jerrik presses him, leaning in. 

"Map coordinates." He rubs his tired eyes. "They're map coordinates." 

Jerrik grabs his map from his pack.

They spend the next while plotting out the coordinates. Neither of them speaks, but the silence is less hostile than it has been, each occupied with his half of the list. When they're done, they have eight locations marked, and Valmir nearly collapses with shock when he sees Valthume among them. He remembers Estormo brushing him off rudely during their meeting, and vindication rushes through him, heady as Alinorian wine. Jerrik sits back and looks at it for a moment, and Valmir watches him out of the corner of his eye.

"Guess you're not so useless after all," Jerrik says, and and then he smiles. It's crooked and faint, but it's there, and it's genuine. Before Valmir can figure out how he's supposed to be feeling at this precise moment, Jerrik points at the last set of numbers on the parchment. "What about these?"

"Oh. They're not coordinates. They don't match anything on the map." Valmir squints at them. "I don't know what they're supposed to mean, but I wrote them down in case - well, unless... hold on." He grabs the book and flips to the pages matching the numbers, back-to-back. He reads them, and when he puts it together, he pauses for a long, long moment. Then he wordlessly hands the book to Jerrik. There's a smattering of letters underlined on each page.

_W-O-R-L-D E-A-T-E-R._

 

"Hey," Jerrik says. "Earlier, when you were decoding Ancano's messages."

 Valmir glances at him warily. "What about it?"

"I saw a real person in there somewhere." He points at Valmir, like he's accusing him of something. Accusing him of _personhood._ "And as soon as we were done, it was like it never happened and now you're back to being a Thalmor."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but I hope you're not expecting me to humor your delusions." He picks up the book and holds onto it, needing something to ground him. _You are in control of your emotions,_ he reminds himself. _Not the other_ _way around._

Jerrik shifts in place, chair creaking. His expression is strange. "Who were you before you were Thalmor?" He sounds curious. In some ways, it's worse than if he'd been cruel outright. Valmir’s nails dig into the book's leather spine. He doesn't realize he's clenching his teeth until his jaw starts to ache. Jerrik's voice is soft, but his next words land like a blow. "Were you anyone before you were Thalmor?"

"Since when do you care who we are?" He slams the book down on the table with enough force to rattle the legs. "Did you offer Ancano the same courtesy? Estormo? The rest?"

"Why ask a question you already know the answer to?"

"Are you insinuating that you think I'm _different_?" Valmir spits mockingly. Jerrik cocks his head like he's waiting for an answer. He doesn't say anything, but the message is clear: _I don't know, are you?_

 _Don't be absurd,_ he almost says in response, but little things stay his tongue. Little things like a stolen Justiciar's robes, like treating his enemy as an ally, like sharing bits of his past without thinking. Like sharing a bed. 

He leaves the room.

He orders a bottle of wine from the innkeeper just as the man is heading to bed. He doesn't bother with a cup. There's no one around to see him, anyway. The mage who lives in the room next to the bar emerges at one point, but one look at Valmir in his Justiciar garb and he retreats into his room without a word. Normally Valmir would have reveled in his secondhand power, but tonight, it's as sour as the wine. He sits in front of the fire and drinks until his eyelids droop, and when he can't keep them open any longer, he stretches out awkwardly in the chair and sleeps. He's horribly sore the next morning, but it hardly seems to matter. He'll sleep in a chair every night for the rest of his life if he has to.

He's finally figured out who Jerrik reminds him of.


	4. Four

First Emissary Elenwen's parties are elegant and refined. First Emissary Elenwen's parties are famed throughout the hold, or at least famed among anyone vying for rank and favor. But most importantly, First Emissary Elenwen's parties serve the best drink anywhere outside of Alinor, and Valmir needs every drop he can get his hands on if he's going to make it through tonight. He snatches two flutes of pale, bubbly liquid from a passing server's tray and drains both of them, one right after the other. A mage sneers at him as she sweeps by. He sneers back. 

A month ago, he'd been riding high, freshly promoted and eager to get out of Valenwood so he could finally begin his ascent through the ranks. Finally, they were going to put his talents to proper use, instead of leaving him to rot in some muggy jungle. But now that he's here, he's beginning to wonder if he'd been too eager. Valenwood had been a dead end, but at least it had been warm, and the work had been easy. Enjoyable, even. Skyrim is cold and bleak, a desolate land full of savage Men, and it had been made abundantly clear once he'd arrived that he was going to have to start from the bottom all over again. But, he reminds himself, he's at a party hosted by Elenwen herself - even though he suspects he's only there to pad out the Thalmor presence - surrounded by the most important people in Skyrim, and that is not nothing. He's going to make the most of this opportunity.

But first, he's going to get drunk.

Three more drinks land him on the uncomfortable side of inebriated, and eventually the heat and the noise and the press of bodies on all sides drives him out back, where the sun is setting. He takes a generous goblet full of firebrand wine with him. The courtyard is a neat square surrounded by tall stone walls and a walkway atop which archers kept a lookout, with a row of garden planters in the center, half-buried in the snow. Elenwen's solar lies on the other side, a pair of guards stationed at the door. Valmir slips around the side and finds the covered alcove that houses the back door to the kitchen, hidden away where no one will bother him and he can drink his wine and watch the twilight emerge in peace. Snow falls in gentle flurries now, everything frosted over and glistening white. It isn't so bad at a distance, he decides. Especially in the moonlight. Everything is quiet and still, and now that he can't see the guards on the ramparts, it's easy to imagine that he's the only living being for miles. Right until the door opens while he's finishing his wine.

Company comes in the form of a tall Nord, bare-armed and bare-headed, with a thick beard and shaggy, rust-colored hair. Valmir vaguely recognizes him as one of the men who'd accompanied the Jarl of Solitude to the party - probably her housecarl, judging by his armor. He looks surprised when he sees Valmir, and they stare at each other for an awkward beat until Valmir raises an eyebrow and says, "You're not supposed to be back here." 

The Nord snorts and turns away, to the other side of the alcove. Robbed of his blissful isolation, Valmir's mood is quickly going south. "Did you hear me? I said you're - "

"Not supposed to be back here," the man finishes, voice weary. "Aye, elf. I heard you. But I don't think your Emissary is going to bother herself over me gettin' a bit of fresh air. She's busy extolling the benefits of an alliance to my Jarl."

Elisiif is a pretty, fragile little thing, who’d seemed lost to Valmir when he glimpsed her earlier. Elenwen is going to eat her alive. "Your Jarl told you to go enjoy the party while they discussed business, I assume."

“Aye,” the Nord says again. "Looks like you're enjoying it about as much as I am.”

Valmir's laugh comes out as a startled bark. "I really was enjoying myself before you came along, you know." He raises his mostly-empty goblet. The man chuckles and holds up an entire bottle full of firebrand wine, and Valmir is too drunk to contain his astonishment.

"Where did you - now, I'm _certain_ you're not allowed to have that."

"Going to turn me in?"

Valmir finishes the last dregs of his cup, and holds it out. "Pour me some and maybe I won't remember where I got it."

"Help me finish this, and I won't tell your superiors that you have a sense of humor." The man's eyes crinkle at the corners. "They seem to frown on that sort of thing around here."

"Shut up and pour, Nord."

The man's laugh comes from deep in his chest, and it makes Valmir's skin prickle. He watches the wine fill his cup and blames the cold. "What's your name, elf?"

"Valmir. _Captain_ Valmir. What's it to you?" He's drunk, and languid, and his words don't hold the same venom they normally do. The man shrugs and takes a drink of his wine. His eyes are unfocused, nose and cheeks pink above his beard, and Valmir realizes he must be drunk, too. He takes a sip and lets the wine set his throat ablaze.

It worries him, how natural it feels to share a drink with this man and watch the snow fall. He went soft in Valenwood, he tells himself. Too long without any fieldwork to keep his edges sharp. But even that can't dampen the inexplicable glow suffusing his chest, like he's getting away with something. It helps that his unwanted companion isn't much for idle chatter. They polish off the rest of the bottle, but Valmir makes no move to leave. The Nord watches him instead of the snow.

"Nowhere better to be?"

"No," Valmir says. Despite his best efforts, it comes out bitter. "Not that it's any of your business."

"You're new, right?" It's not really a question. "Haven't seen you at any of Elenwen's parties."

"First Emissary Elenwen," Valmir corrects him icily. "And yes, though I don't know what difference that makes."

"If you weren't, you wouldn’t be out here. You’re the new meat. Whelp of the pack." He says it casually, the way someone might talk about the weather. "That's how it always goes."

"Watch your tongue." Valmir's fingers are so tight around his glass that his knuckles go white. "I am not someone you want to make an enemy of."

The man chuckles. Perversely, he looks like he's enjoying himself. "I'll keep that in mind."

“Is that a threat?”

“Is it?”

Valmir slams the goblet down on the top of an empty barrel. It echoes off the narrow sides of the alcove. "I could have you whipped," he growls. “Beaten. Outcast.”

The Nord bares his teeth, lips stretched tight. "I'd like to see you try." He says it like he's daring Valmir. Like he really _does_ want to see him try.

Valmir thinks maybe he threw the first punch, but it doesn't matter - it's over before it really begins, his back slamming against the frozen stone wall. The man is shorter than him but his grip is like iron, his weight pinning Valmir in place. No one can see them. No one knows they're there. His breath is hot against the side of Valmir's neck.

"My name is Bolgeir Bear-Claw." He isn't squeezing, but he could. The threat is in the way his palm curves around Valmir's throat, fingertips resting on his windpipe. "And if we’re issuing idle threats, I could have you arrested for treacherous intent."

Valmir croaks wordlessly, his own hands locked around Bolgeir's wrist. Their bodies are flush against one another, and when Bolgeir shifts his weight, leaning into it, Valmir's hips flex of their own accord. Bolgeir pauses. Looks up, studies Valmir's face for a moment. "Ah," he says, and Valmir closes his eyes. This is it; his life is over. He feels strangely calm.

That big hand leaves his throat and snakes upward to curl in his hair. He'd let it get long in Valenwood and hadn't thought to cut it. When Bolgeir twists it up in his fingers, tugging experimentally, his knees nearly give out. Bolgeir's beard scrapes his jaw, breath almost painfully warm against his numb skin. "Tell me to stop and I will."

Valmir surges forward and bites him instead, teeth catching his mouth clumsily. Bolgeir shoves him back against the wall in response and forces his thigh between Valmir's with a sharp inhale. There's no tenderness in the way they kiss, which is just as well - neither of them is looking for anything less than a fight. He bites back, sucking roughly on Valmir's tongue, and Valmir feels like he's coming apart at the seams, cock throbbing between his thighs. He'd had dalliances in Valenwood on a few brief, unsatisfying occasions, but he'd always felt like there was something missing, leaving him more frustrated than before. A gasp slips out as Bolgeir's mouth find his neck.

It's snowing harder now, the wind whistling past them, but he's sweating and his fingers scrabble uselessly at the broad, frigid expanse of Bolgeir's cuirass. Bolgeir grabs his wrists, trying to pin him again, but Valmir grapples back, evading him. He's built differently than his slender mage counterparts, wiry but solid, his arms corded with muscle. They wrestle in the alcove, breath coming out in harsh white clouds; they scuffle and throw knees and elbows, fingers digging into exposed flesh, testing each other's strength.

Bolgeir breathes hard through his nose, teeth bared and eyes dark. He ducks inside Valmir's long reach with a speed that belies his bulk to pin his wrists over his head, his free hand locked around Valmir's jaw. Valmir tries to wrench free and gets a blow for his troubles that makes him snarl, eyes watering. He's never been so hard in his life. Bolgeir lets go of his jaw and runs a finger lightly along the shell of his ear and down the side of his neck, tracing his pulse. Valmir shudders. Two thick, callused fingers press against his lips, forcing his mouth open. "Suck."

They don't take their armor off. That would have been suicide. Instead, Bolgeir holds him in place, nibbling his ears until he's panting and trying to grind his hips against Bolgeir's thigh, fucking Valmir's mouth with his fingers.

"I'd love nothing more than for all your uptight superiors to find you on your knees, worshipping my cock." He whispers the words like a lover, the rough pads of his fingers stroking Valmir's tongue. "Watching you struggle to take it all in while I fuck your pretty elven face until you choke." His lips caress Valmir's earlobe, sucking on it until he whimpers. "So much for being a superiorly-bred mer..."

Valmir makes an outraged sound in the back of his throat and comes, his orgasm tearing through him with no warning. Bolgeir bites his ear, hand smothering his mouth to stifle him and it only sends him higher. He slumps boneless against the wall, shaking, stars in his eyes. Bolgeir pulls his fingers free and wipes them across Valmir's lower lip, spit smearing cold on his chin. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

 

Valmir remembers now, and he feels sick. He'd done his best to forget, nearly drinking himself to death that night in an attempt to wipe his memory, but he'd only succeeded in submerging it until it came bobbing to the surface like a bloated corpse. He sits doubled over in his chair, skin clammy and stomach roiling. No amount of alcohol could justify what he'd done - no, what he'd allowed to be done _to him._ At the same time, a sick thrill accompanies the flood of memories, and he shakes his head like he can dislodge them, along with the disgusting urges that plague him.

 _I have been faithful,_ he argues to no one in a silent plea. _Auri-El, help me, I'm not... I'm not like that!_

Nothing changes. No one stirs. He's still alone in the common room of the Frozen Hearth, and eventually there's nothing left to do but go back to the room and face Jerrik as they start getting ready for the journey ahead.

Jerrik is awake, but if he has any thoughts about the previous night, he keeps them to himself. The memories linger stubbornly in the back of Valmir’s mind, and part of him feels foolish for not seeing the resemblance sooner. The hair and eyes are different, but their builds are identical - broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, long-limbed - and of course, there's their shared enjoyment of riling Valmir beyond the limits of good sense. He averts his gaze and finishes buckling his armor.

"Go get the horses ready, will you? I'm going to finish packing." Jerrik sounds distant, almost polite, which only makes Valmir suspicious. But being in a confined space together is slowly suffocating him, and he tries to not sound too eager when he agrees.

The horses are in much better spirits now that they've had a proper night's rest. They nicker and nudge his hands over the stable gates, searching for treats, and he gives them each an apple and sets about saddling them up. He's almost done when he happens to glance over his shoulder and sees Jerrik leaning against the fence, watching him. Heat crawls up his throat.

"What?" he snaps.

"Nothing," Jerrik says. For a moment, he sounds wistful, and somewhere deep in the recesses of Valmir's mind, beneath his defenses, he can't help but wonder if he reminds Jerrik of someone, too. "Let's go."

 

They ride along the desolate shore that stretches between Winterhold and Dawnstar, sea churning gray and bitter alongside them. Valmir lets Jerrik set the pace and tries not to think too much. To their left, the woods stretch on for miles, blanketed with snow and oppressively silent. The trees are dead and gray too, gnarled branches frosted and glistening with ice. The horses' hooves churn up pebbles and grit as they canter along the beach. A pod of horkers graze in the shallows, ignoring them as they pass by, and once or twice they hear wolves amongst the trees, but they never materialize, leaving Valmir and Jerrik to travel in peace. Valmir wishes something would happen. Nothing serious, of course, but a pack of wolves or a bear would be almost welcome at this point. Anything to silence the unwanted thoughts nipping at his heels. Jerrik's sudden lack of interest in conversation is ill-timed, and impossible as it is, a part of Valmir wonders if Jerrik had somehow seen into his memories and was disgusted by what he'd found. Not that he cares if Jerrik is disgusted by him. He just wants to know if the man is up to something.

When it gets too dark to go on, they veer off into the woods and set up camp for the night in a copse of trees not far from the road. The snow has mostly melted, leaving behind patches of frozen dirt and permafrost. They don't build a fire, not wanting to risk being seen, and Valmir wraps the spare blanket around his shoulders like a cloak and huddles on his bedroll while Jerrik tends to the horses.

"Dawnstar's not far from here," he says. "We keep up this pace and we can cut down past Morthal to Rorikstead in two, maybe three days’ time. It's a straight shot to Markarth from there."

"Amazing," Valmir says. "You manage to go hours without speaking for once, only to ruin it by telling me something I already know."

Jerrik finishes with the horses and comes back over to fold himself cross-legged onto his bedroll, cracking his knuckles. "You complain when I talk, now you complain when I don't?"

"You - "

"What is it you want from me here, exactly?"

"Tell me what the tattoo on your neck means." He doesn't know where that request comes from, but as soon as it's on his tongue, it's true. He wants to know, and he revels in seeing Jerrik caught off-guard, even if it's only for a moment.

"No."

"Just last night, you pried into my past, less than a day after telling me to leave yours alone. You have demanded my obedience, humiliated me, forced me to impersonate a superior, and if you were going to kill me you would have done it by now, so stop insulting my intelligence and drop the charade!" He glares at Jerrik, even as his hands shake and his heart hammers so fast he thinks he might be sick. "What does the tattoo mean?"

Jerrik's face is ruddy, eyes narrow and lip curled like he's about to lunge across the narrow space that separates them, but after a second some of the tension drains from his face and he sits back, taking a deep breath. "Aye, I suppose I did pry, and I'll apologize for that."

"You will," Valmir says, at a loss. Jerrik, apologizing to him. He nearly looks up to make sure the moons haven't fallen from the sky.

"No sense in holding someone else to different standards than myself." Jerrik shrugs, scratches the back of his neck. "Not much to tell, though."

"Try me."

"It's the symbol of the clan I was raised in." He says the next words slowly, as if each one costs him great effort. "We worshipped Clavicus Vile. You got one if you managed to last your first five winters."

 _Clavicus Vile._ Valmir stares at him, repulsed. "You're a daedra wor-"

" _No,_ " Jerrik says, and there's such vehemence behind the word that Valmir might actually believe him. "I left as soon as I came of age, and never looked back. That's all there is to it. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic." The last bit, Valmir definitely doesn't buy, but he's pushed his luck enough for one night. "Well. That explains your lack of religious fervor."

Jerrik smiles crookedly. "Can't choose your family, but you can choose your fate."

Valmir laughs, because of course this man would be so arrogant as to think he could change the path the gods had set him on. “Isn’t that just like a human.”

"Nobody's bound by where they start out," Jerrik argues. "I used to worship Vile because that's what I was brought up knowing. But I escaped."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It was. And it wasn't." He eyes Valmir in the semi-dark, both of them spattered with moonlight leaking through the trees. "Is that why you're Thalmor, then? Because it's easier than trying to be something better?"

"I'll thank you to keep your theories to yourself."

"You have yet to call me a heretic or accuse me of Talos worship. Which, I have to say, I was expecting."

"Justiciars are the enforcers of the White-Gold Concordat and its terms. My work is in espionage and code. If I suspected you of illegal worship practices, I would report it, but that's the extent of my responsibilities."

"Yes, but what do you think of it?"

"Talos worship is illegal," Valmir says patiently. 

"I'm asking what you _think_ of it," Jerrik says. "Outside of it being illegal."

"Are you aware that even asking me this is heretical?"

"Oh, are you going to arrest me after all? I thought that wasn't your responsibility."

Aedra, but the man is dense. Valmir glares at him. "Talos is a _man._ No more a god than you, and responsible for heinous acts against my kin besides. The very notion disgusts me."

"I don't worship him," Jerrik says. "But the Thalmor are in the middle of trying to wipe out my people, along with everyone who isn't Altmer, so I'm not convinced you have the moral high ground here."

"I am not going to debate philosophy with you," Valmir says. "You could never hope to comprehend the glory of our aims, or the complexities of - "

"Oh, fuck off," Jerrik says, and neither of them speaks for the rest of the night.

 

"I know you think we're all just filthy, savage heretics, but I'm not so sure your 'philosophy' is beyond my comprehension."

Back to this, then, Valmir thinks. "Your comprehension isn't needed. Only your compliance."

"Is that what they told you while they were indoctrinating you?"

Valmir refuses to dignify his accusation with a response, but he finds it unsettling that the statement, while not completely true, is at least vaguely truth-shaped. He nudges his mount with his heels and rides ahead. They'd passed Dawnstar and were well on their way towards Solitude, following the road that would eventually fork and lead them past Morthal and into the Reach. The sun shines pale overhead, glittering on black waves in the distance. Jerrik catches up with him easily.

"Just so we're clear," he says, "I don't care about your philosophy, or if you hate me, or if the Thalmor think we're all vermin who need to be exterminated. It's the 'trying to exterminate us' part I have a problem with."

"You and your kind have killed your fair share of my kin without remorse. Don't pretend you're blameless." 

"We all have blood on our hands," Jerrik says. "But it's never enough for the Thalmor, it seems." 

This time, he rides ahead, and Valmir hangs back, fuming. He's angry, but for some reason he thinks back to their short-lived truce while he cracked Ancano's code at the Frozen Hearth, and the brief happiness he'd found in that moment. His family is loyal to the Dominion, and to Auri-El's teachings. He'd learned about suffering with nobility and dignity before he could walk, about finding pride in his station and his bloodline and his inherent superiority over lesser mer and mortals. But things like joy, guilt, grief... those were unimportant, distractions at best and weakness at worst. He wonders if it's possible to miss something he's never known. It's a brief, foolish thought - where it comes from, he isn't sure. He disregards it and rides on, unaware that it had already begun to take root.

 

All around them, the blizzard screams, shaking the trees in its rage. Valmir's teeth chatter. He can't feel his face, or his extremities, and violent shudders wrack him beneath his blanket. The overhang they'd found to wait out the storm keeps them mostly dry, but it does nothing to abate the cold. At least he'd had a tent up at Forelhost, and a fire pit. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, arms wrapped around his torso as he curses Skyrim silently. The wind slices at him like the blade of a knife, so cold it hurts to breathe. There’s movement at his back.

"W-what are you - "

"Don't make me regret this." One enormous arm wraps around his middle, and Jerrik's bulk settles behind him, crushing Valmir against his chest. He'd taken off his cuirass, and his body radiates immense heat, enveloping Valmir in a matter of minutes. His extremities tingle as they begin to thaw.

"If you e-ever mention this - "

"This is as unpleasant for me as it is for you, I promise," Jerrik growls in his ear.

Valmir can't help it - he shivers, a gasp escaping his lips, and Jerrik's grip on him loosens. He lays curled in a ball, stiff with fear, afraid that Jerrik had heard him, but nothing happens, and after a while he uncurls.

_He can never know._

The thought of what might happen if Jerrik were to discover his... _proclivities_  is not something he wants to contemplate (out of disgust, he tells himself, out of fear, not because the thought makes him ache). He should move away. But he's warm now, his shivering subsiding to the occasional tremor, and so he stays where he is. In the distance, wolves bay, singing along with the storm.

He drifts off soon after into an uneasy slumber and dreams about being lost in the woods, and when he wakes the blizzard has passed and dawn is breaking pink and rosy-gold like apple skin. He'd rolled over in his sleep, and he and Jerrik are locked together in a sweaty tangle of limbs, Jerrik's face buried in his shoulder while his hair tickles Valmir's nose. His first instinct is to try to free himself, as it should be, but it's still cold and he's warm and drowsy from Jerrik's endless body heat. For once, putting distance between them seems like a bad idea. It's a moment of weakness he'll surely regret, but he doesn't move, and Jerrik shifts in his sleep and sighs, arms tightening around Valmir's waist.

 

The bandits come at them from over the hill. One minute they're alone on the road, the woods quiet, and the next arrows cut through the air around them, war cries ringing out as the group charges down the slope to meet them. Valmir's horse rears as an arrow grazes her side, and he hangs on grimly with one hand, drawing his sword. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jerrik wheel his mount around and go charging off the road to face their leader. The bandit chief is another Nord, tall and fully-armored, wielding a mace and a shield, and he takes a swipe as Jerrik rides past him and misses. Jerrik urges his horse to circle back once more and stands up in the stirrups, reaching back to grab the handle of his axe and swinging it over his head like it weighs nothing. The heavy blade crashes down against the shield, sending the bandit staggering backwards with a roar. Jerrik's next swing separates the man's head from his shoulders in a spray of blood seconds before Valmir runs one of the archers through. He plants his heel on her shoulder and yanks his blade free with a squelch, her body crumpling to the ground. The last two bandits, a stocky Breton wielding conjured swords and a Bosmer archer, are quick enough to stay out of range of Jerrik's axe long enough to retreat to higher ground.

"Watch your back, travelers," the Breton calls out mockingly. "There's more where that came from." With that, she and her fellow survivor take off over the hill and disappear, clearly uninterested in going the way of their comrades. Valmir cleans his blade off in the snow while Jerrik searches the bodies for valuables.

"Nothing much," he says, pulling a handful of septims from the chief's belt and tucking them into the coin purse hanging from his own. "What a waste."

"Perhaps they should find a different profession," Valmir says. Jerrik chuckles, but his gaze stays trained on the hill. 

"Maybe so. Keep an eye out anyway."

No more bandits arrive to trouble them, and the rest of the day's ride is uneventful, but Valmir looks over his shoulder now and again. Just in case.

 

Solitude rises in the distance, a sloping stone causeway bridging two pieces of land where the Sea of Ghosts narrows to an inlet, and Jerrik glares at it like it's a blight. "At least the weather's good. Should stay that way."

"We live in hope," Valmir says dourly.

It's still cold, but it's no longer snowing. At this point, he'll take what he can get. They'd finally reached the fork in the road, and an ancient, weathered signpost stands at its center, wooden arrows pointing off in three directions. Crudely carved letters proclaim that Solitude is to the west, Dawnstar to the east, and Morthal to the south. Jerrik nudges his mount and breaks into a trot, and Valmir follows him down the new path and around the bend. It's not long before the terrain shifts from flat and snowy to unevenly layered, and the temperature rises as the mists begin to creep in. The air reminds him of Windhelm's hold, thicker and slightly sulfurous, and he sees why as soon as the road rejoins the forest - they're surrounded by swampy marshland on either side, and twisted, colorless trees converge on them as they ride deeper into it, fog thick on the water. The path disappears into mottled grass and brown rushes, and they're left to guide their horses along the bank and over rocky platforms and boulders on their own.

"Morthal's just on the other side," Jerrik says, slowing to a trot. "It's mostly open terrain from there, but until we get there, watch your back. Nothing good lives in the swamp."

"Clarify."

"Trolls. Occasionally chaurus, but mostly trolls."

"Chaurus?"

"Ever met one?"

"No."

"If you're given the choice, pick the trolls."

Water gurgles as the horses slog through to the other side, silt and damp earth sucking at their hooves, and both of them end up getting off and walking to give their mounts a break. "I trust you know where you're going," Valmir says.

"Of course I - " Jerrik halts, cutting himself off mid-sentence. He cocks his head, then beckons Valmir closer. "Hear that?"

Valmir listens. He doesn't hear anything at first, but then he catches it. Voices in the distance, faint, but traveling their way. He and Jerrik look at one another, and in unspoken agreement, they lead their horses off towards a little thicket of trees surrounding the base of a rocky plateau. They're hidden there, as long as the horses stay calm, and they peer out from behind the boulders, waiting. A small patrol emerges into the clearing from a copse of trees, chattering softly at one another. They're too far away to make out faces, but all five of them are wearing Imperial colors, and the foremost legionnaire is holding a shield bearing Solitude's wolf. Unsurprising, since the Imperials control most of Skyrim's western half, and Valmir relaxes slightly. It's better than bandits or Stormcloaks. But when he looks over at Jerrik, he sees something he's never seen before. It's a look so completely, utterly alien to the man's face that it takes him a moment to recognize it for what it is.

It's fear.


	5. Five

They’re an hour or two outside of Morthal when the Stormcloaks find them. More accurately, they find a camp full of Stormcloaks, bored and restless and eager to spill some blood, and if it’s elf blood, so much the better.

“For the last time,” Jerrik growls, “I’m not with the Legion, and he’s not Thalmor. You have no right to detain us.” He’d placed himself between Valmir and the soldiers, his mount shuffling nervously. Valmir keeps quiet and looks straight ahead. Their combined gaze burns into him like a brand.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” their leader says. He’s burly and blond with a bulbous nose and a beard like straw, and he spits on the ground, looking between them with open suspicion. Jerrik scoffs.

“You really think I look like one of those milk-drinkers?”

“Ain’t you I have a problem with. It’s him.” The other soldiers murmur in agreement. Sunlight glints off their weapons. Valmir’s palms are slimy with sweat. He grips the reins tighter, keeps his face blank.

“Who, Tilmo? He’s not smart enough to be Thalmor.” Jerrik shoots him a look. “Can’t talk, neither.”

“What’s he good for, then?”

“Carrying my shit.”

This earns a couple of snickers, and the leader turns his pale eyes on Valmir, smirking. “That true, knife-ear? You can’t speak?”

Valmir bites his tongue hard, and tastes copper. He shakes his head and imagines running the man through with his sword. Over and over and over again.

“Hey,” Jerrik says, drawing their attention before they can harass him further. “Don’t bother with him. He’s not worth much. Doesn’t even scream when you beat him.” His horse shifts beneath him, chuffing softly. Valmir stares at the distant skyline, all treetops and jagged mountains, and swallows the blood in his mouth. “Are we free to go? My wife’s waiting for me in Rorikstead.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Go on.” The leader waves them on, and the rest stand aside to let them pass, but Valmir can feel their eyes on his back long after he’s left them behind.

Jerrik waits until they’re a respectable distance away before slowing his horse to a trot. “Ulfric’s watchdogs.” He snorts. “Can’t say I’m impressed.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“I had you pegged for a Stormcloak supporter,” Valmir says, and watches him carefully.

“Why, because I’m a Nord? Or because I hate the Thalmor?”

“Pick one.”

Jerrik laughs, but it sounds forced to his ears. “Well, now you know.” There’s a pause. “What I said to them about you… that was for show. Easier to play to their biases.”

“I’m well aware. Is that an apology I hear?”

“Call it clarification.” Jerrik’s teeth flash white against his beard. “I hate to say it, but you’re smarter than that lot put together.”

“I’m overcome,” Valmir says dryly, but his mind is a jumble behind his mask. A former daedra worshiper, afraid of Imperials but contemptuous of Stormcloaks, a hunter of Thalmor with too many missing pieces to his story – he’s beginning to realize how little he truly knows about the man, how little power he holds, and it doesn’t sit well with him. “Whose side are you on, then?”

“My own, same as you,” Jerrik says.

Another half-truth. Valmir doesn’t reply. They ride on to Rorikstead in silence, sun beating down high and red above them.

 

There are mountains on either side of them, craggy and snow-capped, but Valmir still feels exposed. His hand never leaves the hilt of his sword. They’d gone a short way off the road to let the horses drink, and Jerrik sits on the riverbank and chews dried meat. Valmir is exhausted, but there’s a nervous, jangly energy to the air that keeps him on his feet. Ahead of them, the path stretches out for miles. There’s another road branching off the first not far from them that will allow them to cut across a different river and head straight for Markarth.

He can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched. He stretches his arms over his head, making a show of yawning while he glances around. He doesn’t see anything, but something gives him pause, like the beginnings of an itch he can’t quite scratch. _Mages nearby._ He’s still an Altmer, if nothing else. He knows what magic feels like when it fills the air. Slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion, he crouches down next to Jerrik. “We’re not alone.” Jerrik keeps eating, but his shoulders tense. Valmir continues, under his breath. “On my count. We get on the horses and go. If they’re on foot, we can outrun them.”

“I’m not running,” Jerrik says, deadly soft. But he doesn’t reach for his axe.

“Are you mad, or merely stupid? Because it’s hard to tell sometimes.” They’re hemmed in by mountains and the river on three sides by an unknown number of foes. He’s about to stab Jerrik himself and be done with it.

“Hold onto the horses, and stay out of my way.” There’s something about the look in Jerrik’s eye that makes Valmir’s retort stick to the roof of his mouth. “Don’t try to run, don’t try to help. Just stay here.”

He unbuckles his breastplate. Valmir wonders if he’s dreaming. “What in Oblivion are you _doing_?”

Jerrik stands. The breastplate hits the ground with a deep, metallic clang. He shucks off his gauntlets. Valmir backs away, takes the horses’ reins in hand. Dread bubbles up in the pit of his stomach.

The bandits come at them from over the hill.

There are more of them this time, a ragged band of cutthroats with a Breton at their head, conjured bow in her hands. One of her arrows catches Jerrik in the shoulder, and he throws his head back and roars. The horses rear, eyes rolling in terror as thick black fur erupts from his skin, and Valmir stumbles back and almost falls, half in the shallows. He barely has the presence of mind to cling to the reins, trying to keep to keep the horses from bolting.

The bandits scream, a couple of them bolting, but the rest keep coming, and the beast charges to meet them. It looks like a bear, but its limbs are too long and it’s too tall, face wolf-like and claws like knives. It bowls straight into them, sending the bandits scattering. They don’t stand a chance, even with as many of them as there are. Valmir turns his back on the massacre. He finally manages to get a hand on each of the horses to use a rudimentary calming spell – most Illusion magic is beyond him, but animals are easier than humans or other mer. By then, most of the screaming has died down.

The creature stands on its hind legs, sniffing the air. Blood drips from its jaws. Then, it shudders, and Jerrik stands in its place. He’s naked, panting, hair flowing loose down his back. He turns to face Valmir, slowly. His shoulders are still slightly hunched, fingers splayed like claws. His bare torso is streaked with sweat and shallow gashes, blood caked in his beard; his eyes are wild, predatory and gold.

Valmir doesn’t move. He could have left. He could have gotten on his horse and ridden away with Jerrik’s mount in tow, left him to deal with the bandits on his own. He had the chance to try to get rid of him. Jerrik stalks toward him, and Valmir drops the reins and fumbles for his sword with shaking hands.

“Stop.” Jerrik’s voice is rough, a near-growl, and Valmir’s hands still despite himself. Jerrik moves towards him and he backs up, keeps backing up until he’s pressed against his mount, who’s standing there docile, like she hadn’t been about to flee in terror only minutes earlier. Jerrik leans in close. He smells like sweat and earth and musk, lips parted to expose his teeth. Valmir swallows, hands flat against his sides. He’s sweating, terrified, half-hard against his thigh.

 Jerrik’s eyes fade to blue, but he doesn’t move. “Let me tell you a story,” he says.

 

Not that long ago, there was a boy.

He wasn’t a remarkable boy. No more so than any other in his clan. But he survived when others died, and he made it to fifteen winters before he left home and his brother, his only friend, behind. It was when he was on his own that he finally proved he was remarkable, in a sense. He was foolish enough to think he could bargain with a Daedra.

He was hunting deep in the lush dark woods surrounding Falkreath when he came upon a white stag, and recognized it as the spirit of the hunt, which is but one aspect of the wild god Hircine. He gave chase, and eventually managed to wound and capture the beast. But instead of killing it, he challenged it to speak with him directly, and grant him a boon in exchange for its freedom. Hircine is the Wild God, the hunter and the hunted – he appreciates the chase being turned on its head, but he does not trifle with mortals who think themselves cleverer than he. The boy wished to become a great hunter, able to strike fear into the hearts of his foes. Hircine granted his wish, and trapped him between man and beast, his spirit slated for the hunting grounds when he died. But the Daedric Princes guard the souls they’ve acquired jealously, and none more so than Clavicus Vile. The boy’s soul was his by rights, had been since birth, and he sought to recapture it.

Years passed, and the boy became a man, living feral in the woods until chance reunited him with his brother once again. The how is unimportant. He was seen for what he had become, and his brother chose to embrace him. He swore that he would help him find a cure.

Eventually, they did. But at what cost?

 

They ride for a long time before Valmir dares ask the question. Jerrik is wearing his breastplate and gauntlets, along with a pair of roughspun trousers he’d had in his pack and soft, worn boots. The rest of his armor had been destroyed by his transformation. He looks silly, top-heavy, but Valmir isn’t in a laughing mood.

“If you found the cure, why are you still cursed?”

Jerrik looks straight ahead. There are still streaks of blood on his face and arms. “As penance,” he says. “Or maybe it’s because the cure turned out to be fake. Or maybe it just makes for a better story. What does it matter? Believe what you want.”

“I believe that’s the closest you’ve ever come to telling the truth,” Valmir says. “Why?”

“Why did you warn me about the bandits? You could have ridden off and left me to be ambushed.”

“I can see now that it wouldn’t have made a difference.” He still can’t look at Jerrik directly, disgust and fascination tangling with one another in his chest. “I think you were playing at not knowing they were there. Waiting to see what I would do.”

“And why would I do that?”

“I don’t know!” Valmir’s frustration boils over. At least with the Thalmor he knows where he stands. Or did, before this whole charade. “How should I know why you do anything?” He digs his heels into his mount’s side, spurring her into a gallop, and takes off down the road. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He knows Jerrik will follow.

 

Old Hroldan is famous for one thing, and one thing only.

“I am not,” Valmir says, “sleeping in Tiber Septim’s bed.”

“You’ll sleep wherever there’s room.”

“I have suffered plenty of indignities at your hand, and I am sure I will suffer more yet.” Valmir lifts his chin, stares Jerrik down. “But this is one I will _not._ Get a different room.”

Jerrik punches the signpost so hard it breaks, but he pays for the other room.

They eat dinner without speaking, ignoring the innkeeper’s attempts to regale them with bits of the inn’s history, then retreat back to the room. Jerrik is in bad temper, and ravenous; the after-effects of his transformation, no doubt. Valmir expects no less of someone who’s half-beast. Jerrik strips off his armor and tunic and sinks down onto the edge of the bed, shirtless, head bowed. The arrow wound in his shoulder is already healed.

Valmir sits at the little table against the wall. “Do you go through a lot of armor like that?” For once, Jerrik doesn’t have anything to say. He just stares down at his empty hands. Valmir should leave it, he knows, but he’s feeling especially cruel. “You never finished your story.”

An almost imperceptible shiver runs down Jerrik’s back. “Stop.”

“What happened to your brother?” The question is sharp, and he aims it like the well-timed thrust of a blade. “Did you kill him?”

He’s prepared this time. He dodges when Jerrik lunges at him, rolling out of his chair into a defensive stance. The chair crunches as Jerrik drives it into the stone, wood splintering and legs cracking in half. He lands on all fours, crouched, eyes gold and teeth sharp. Valmir looks at him – teetering on the edge, holding desperately onto the frayed ends of his self-control – and his pulse thrums. _Now you know how I feel._ Now they’re on even ground. He draws his sword.

One side of Jerrik’s mouth lifts into a snarl. He slinks to his feet, hair tangled around his face like a mane. “I loved my brother,” he says.

“Loved him.” Valmir scoffs. “You probably ate him.”

Jerrik picks up the other chair and swings it at him like a hammer. Valmir parries and slices the legs off. The remainder of the chair smashes against the wall.

Someone pounds on the door. “What’s going on in there?” Eydis calls, alarmed.

“We’re working out sleeping arrangements,” Jerrik growls, eyes never leaving Valmir’s. “Go away.”

She beats a hasty retreat, and Jerrik picks up one of the broken chair legs. His nails are long now, pointed, and they leave gouges in the wood. Valmir beckons him forward with his free hand, and Jerrik throws it at him. He bats it aside with his sword and lunges. Jerrik catches his blade mid-swing with his bare hand. Valmir stumbles in his surprise, tries to regain his footing and pull his sword back, but Jerrik holds on, edges biting deep in his flesh. Blood drips thickly down the blade. He wrenches it from Valmir’s grasp and tosses it aside, droplets of blood spattering against the wall and floor.

Valmir tries to dart past him, but Jerrik grabs him by the neck of his armor and throws him back. His knees hit the side of the bed and he falls. And then Jerrik is on him, knees on either side of him, pinning him to the mattress with his good hand and his weight. His injured hand drips blood onto the sheets and Valmir’s bare forearm. But even as he watches, the blood flow slows to a trickle, then dries up altogether. Jerrik’s chest heaves with each labored breath, eyes flickering between blue and gold.

Valmir stares him dead in the face, even as his heart pounds and terror grips his neck with cold fingers. “Go on,” he says, caustic. “Do it, then.”

From some hidden, unacknowledged corner of his mind: _End this unceasing torment._

_Hurt me._

Jerrik’s hands dig into his shoulders, making him hiss in pain. Arousal pools sickly in his stomach, followed by alarm as Jerrik leans in, his nose skimming Valmir’s neck. Breathing him in, his beard and hair rough against Valmir’s skin. He struggles, but he has no leverage, and Jerrik lets him squirm, lips drawn back from his teeth in disgust, or maybe something else.

“You think I don’t know?” It hits like icy water, or a slap to the face. “Your blood quickens. Your heart beats faster. I can smell your arousal on your _breath._ ”

Ironic, Valmir thinks. He can’t breathe. Jerrik’s face swims in front of his eyes, features blurring. “Go on. Ask me again if I killed my brother. Say whatever you think will wound me most.” His lips brush the corner of Valmir’s mouth. “It won’t change anything. I still know you want me.”

“Get away from me,” he hears himself whisper.

Jerrik gets off of him. He grabs his tunic from where it lays crumpled on the floor and yanks it over his head. He doesn’t look at Valmir. He leaves without a word, slamming the door behind him.

Valmir’s hands are shaking as he tears at the front of his breeches, lifting his hips to yank them down his thighs. His cock slaps against his stomach, heavy, tip glistening where it emerges from his foreskin. A few rough strokes and he rolls over, biting the pillow, grinding against the mattress with the sheets rough against his knuckles. His body feels too hot, aching all over, his hips twitching of their own accord. He ruts into his fist until his orgasm rips through him, leaves him panting and sticky with loathing. He cleans off his hand on a spare cloth from his pack, then fastens his breeches and sprawls back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His sword lays on the floor nearby, still wet with Jerrik’s blood.

 _I still know you want me._ The words linger on his skin like a hateful caress. Bolgeir had known too, somehow, even though he wasn’t a werebeast, as far as Valmir knew. Maybe he’s cursed too, in his own way. Burdened by this… _affliction_ that drives him to near-madness the longer he spends in Jerrik’s company. Maybe the Thalmor had been able to see it all along, growing inside him like a disease, and that was why they treated me like he was nothing. He almost wishes it _were_ a disease. Death would be kinder.

He lays there, looking at nothing, until the door opens. Jerrik takes one step into the room and freezes. Valmir rolls his head to the side. Their eyes meet. The room reeks of anger and sweat and sex. He can only imagine what Jerrik smells, how he and the bed are probably filthy with the scent of it.

“It stinks in here,” Jerrik says, voice hoarse. He edges forward, like he can skirt around the worst of it, and grabs his pack, slinging it over his shoulder. His nostrils flare, pupils dilating, and he backs away, fingers flexing like claws.

“Good,” Valmir says.

The door shuts again. Soft, this time, barely a whisper against the stone. He waits, but Jerrik doesn’t come back. At least he’s not the only one who’s miserable. It doesn’t feel as satisfactory as he thought it might.


	6. Six

The first thing they do in Markarth is stop a woman from being murdered. Or rather, Valmir does. He’s closer. He doesn’t realize he’s saving anyone in particular when he runs the man through, but the intended victim, an Imperial woman with a shock of red hair and eyes full of terror, thanks him so effusively that he can’t find it in himself to dismiss her. He doesn’t feel like himself lately. He’s beginning to wonder if he ever has, and if so, which self he felt that way about. The fresh-faced recruit? The spy in Valenwood? Captain Valmir, before Forelhost?

(Before Jerrik?)

This is what truly unnerves him. Jerrik has done something to him, left remnants of himself like dirty, smudged fingerprints on glass. It shows when he begins to wonder why no one has tried to contact him, or why no one had come to replace Ancano or retrieve his possessions. The more he tries to ignore it, the more the questions persist, crowding his mind. He’d initially steered them towards Markarth out of desperation, but once he thought about it, having Jerrik deliver him to Commander Ondolemar’s doorstep was a stroke of genius. Unfortunately, procuring a meeting has proven impossible thus far. Jerrik clings to him like an enormous shadow from the second they enter the city, refusing to let Valmir out of his sight. If he wakes up one more time with that heavy body pressing him into the bed, hot against his back, he’s going to snap.

Neither of them has said anything about that night in Old Hroldan. There’s no need. Jerrik’s words are etched on the inside of Valmir’s skull, echoing in his ears late at night and keeping him from sleep. _I still know you want me._

Valmir doesn’t want him, not willingly. He despises Jerrik more than ever – for knowing, for using it against him, for his very existence. But his body, reawakened to the urges it had been denied for so long, aches stubbornly, and Jerrik knows it. He doesn’t do anything about it, but he knows. It’s in his eyes.

Valmir tries to meet with Ondolemar for three days. Jerrik blocks him at every turn. He begins to suspect Jerrik knows that too, somehow, and on the fourth day he decides to step back and bide his time. Meanwhile, they accumulate supplies. Jerrik suddenly has money, a seemingly endless supply, and he spends it like a man possessed, outfitting both of them in brand-new armor from the Jarl’s blacksmith and restocking enough provisions to last them a month. He even buys Valmir a fine sword and shield – elven craftsmanship, to match his new armor. Valmir refuses to be grateful.

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” Jerrik stares at him. “You sent me and a score of others to die in Forelhost. Do you even know what we faced in there? A dragon priest isn’t a foe to be taken lightly.”

“Careful now. I might start to think you’re trying to keep me alive.”

“At least until we get the mask.” Jerrik’s teeth glisten in the candlelight, a touch too sharp to be human.

“And then what?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

Valmir’s lip curls. “Liar.”

Jerrik shrugs. He’s polishing his new armor to an obsidian gleam, but his same old axe rests in the corner, a fresh edge to its blade. Valmir wonders why, then reminds himself that he doesn’t care. Jerrik is a puzzle that needs solving, but only so he can be cut down to size and discarded when Valmir is done with him. Nothing more. But as he lays awake that night, it’s a cruel irony that haunts him; that Jerrik, who hates him, who could have killed him a hundred times over, has shown him more small kindnesses than the Thalmor ever have.

He rolls over, tries to block it out. He won’t – he _can’t_ – accept it. If he does, then that leaves him with another thought too awful to contemplate – that he is worth more to a man-beast than the organization he’s dedicated his life to.

 _It’s not true. Your mind is playing tricks on you._ He buries his face in his pillow, grits his teeth until his jaw aches. At his side, Jerrik’s bulk stirs.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Half-asleep, voice devoid of mockery, he sounds almost concerned. Valmir hates him for it.

“No. Be quiet.”

“Then quit fidgetin’ and go to sleep.”

Valmir ‘accidentally’ elbows him in the back of the head when he rolls over again. He expects retaliation, but it doesn’t come right away. Jerrik waits until he’s teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, then catches the tip of Valmir’s ear between his teeth. Valmir jerks involuntarily, a strangled noise escaping his throat.

Jerrik releases him, beard tickling the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he purrs.

 

Valthume lies southeast from Markarth, less than a day’s ride by Jerrik’s calculations. They head out at dawn the following morning, packs bulging and weapons at the ready. Valmir lets Jerrik take the lead, too absorbed in his thoughts to protest. Auri-El had truly taken mercy on him when Valthume turned up on Ancano’s list, but what if Ancano was mistaken, or he’d made a mistake decoding it? If so, he’s following Jerrik straight to his death. But on the other hand, he reminds himself, there’s a chance their little excursion could end with Jerrik dead and the mask in his possession.

 _You could let him fight the priest_ , the little voice in the back of his head whispers. _Then strike while he’s weak and take the mask._ He puts it aside, uneasy for reasons he can’t name. He could, of course. It wouldn’t be difficult, the way Jerrik jumps into battle headfirst. But the priest taking care of it for him would just be so much… simpler.

It’s night when they arrive, moonlight spilling across the craggy hills and pooling silver in the valley. Their destination is marked by scrub brush and the deadwood trees that sprout up all over the Reach, a blank stone face emerging from the center of the topmost arch. Its vacant eyes are fixed on the mountains. Valmir’s mount whickers nervously, and Valmir swallows. Valthume doesn’t look much different than any other ruin he’s seen in Skyrim, but it _feels_ wrong, an aura of something sick leeching out of the stone and into the very air. It feels… alive, like some rotten, pulsating heart beats at its core. Whatever waits beyond those iron doors was meant to stay buried. He shudders.

“I don’t like this,” Jerrik says. Mouth flattened into a grim line, nostrils flaring. “Look.”

It takes Valmir a second to realize what he’s supposed to be looking at, until it clicks – the torches at the top of the stairs are lit, shadows flickering against the stone. He curses. “Someone else got here first.”

“If it’s who I think it is, we have more to worry about than a dragon priest.”

“What do you mean?” Jerrik ignores him, striding towards the stairs, and cold fear spikes in Valmir’s chest. His foot tangles in the stirrup when he dismounts. He frees himself and skitters after Jerrik, catching up at the top of the steps. “Explain yourself!”

Jerrik looks pointedly at his arm, where long golden fingers dig into his skin to halt him. Valmir snatches his hand back like he’s been scalded. Jerrik turns back to the door, squares his shoulders. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“What in Oblivion are you – “

Jerrik throws the doors open.

The entrance chamber is silver too, light pouring in from the hole carved into the ceiling. Thick vines grapple on every surface, and moss hangs from the pillars like damp green lace. A skeleton reclines in an iron chair in the middle of the room, but that’s not what catches Valmir’s eye. Behind it, a lone figure drags itself across the stone floor, breathing labored. Blood is smeared across the stone floor, black in the moonlight, and his robes are black, too, black and gold, gold like the battered face that looks up, orange eyes widening, and the trembling hand that reaches out and points –

“Valmir,” whispers Justiciar Cyrellian, and Valmir’s lips move but no sound comes out. He watches as the agent he impersonated goes limp, hand falling to the ground. His eyes stare deep into Valmir’s, though they no longer see. He breathes no more.

“Friend of yours?” Jerrik asks. He sniffs the air, then cocks his head to one side, listening. Valmir can’t hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat. “We’re late to the party. Hopefully not too late.” Cyrellian’s blank gaze is fixed on nothing, as vacant as the archway sentry. “Valmir. You alive?”

Estormo’s voice drifts through his memories, the sting of condescension still fresh. _You don’t really put any stock in Nordic superstitions, do you? These humans have less sense than a child. Any fool can see that._ A hand on his shoulder, a warning squeeze. _Forget Valthume._

“ _Valmir_.” Jerrik is standing too close again, peering into his eyes. “Keep it together.”

“You fool,” Valmir spits. “You absolute, utter _fool_ – “

Jerrik grabs the back of his neck and tugs him close, breath hot and sour in his nostrils. “Listen to me! We only have one chance at this, so there’s no time for you to lose your head. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” Valmir says, and jerks away. This time, Jerrik lets him go.

There’s only one door leading out of the room. Dread clouds Valmir’s vision, electric in his veins. The air in the tomb is charged with malevolence, and magic – ancient, evil, pitiless. Jerrik readies his axe, eyes flickering gold. It’s Valmir’s only warning before he kicks the door in. It crashes open, hinges groaning, and ghostly laughter rolls down the hallway. Listening to it is like being submerged in ice water. Screams follow.

Death, left to its own devices, is messy. This is why Valmir supposes most of his fellow Thalmor employ the methods they do. Bloodless ash is easily swept away and forgotten, much more so than a corpse. Valmir, on the other hand, has been up close and personal with death for most of his career. He’d thought himself desensitized, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of the dragon priest. The bodies of a small contingent lay broken on the floor and the steps leading up to a shattered sarcophagus. Across the room, a headless soldier slumps on a throne. The air stinks of blood and smoke and shit, and high above them, a ghostly figure hovers, suspended in a crackling cage of electricity with its arms flung wide.

The holdouts – a handful of soldiers and two battlemages – battle desperately against the lich. The mages are good, clearly practiced at their craft, but they’re injured and running low on magic. A bright ward surrounds the priest, sending their spells careening away. It throws its head back and laughs. The effect is ghastly with the mask’s unmoving face. _“When will you mortals learn?”_

“You are no god!” One of the mages yells, his face orange with rage. Fire blazes at his fingertips. The priest glides forward, and flames ripple off its shield and come back at them, forcing the Thalmor to dance away from its snapping jaws.

 _“Not yet,”_ it chuckles, and its head snakes towards Jerrik and Valmir, the mask’s eyes glowing with an unholy blue light. _“Ah… more kindling for the fire. Delightful.”_

Seven pairs of eyes lock onto the two of them, exposed in the doorway. The other mage’s hands waver, frost hissing in her palms. “Valmir? Is that you?”

 _Yes._ That’s all he has to say. _It’s me._ It would be so easy. He can still help them, fight the priest with them. His freedom stands mere feet away, watching him with a mixture of shock and wariness. It doesn’t have to be too late. He starts to reach out his hand.

She screams.

“Ilspeth!” the other mage howls as the lich flings its own hand out, and she rises in the air, body writhing like a skewered beetle. Bolts of lightning arc across the room, the soldiers charging in their wake, and the lich raises its other hand. The shield flares again, and the lightning dispels in all directions. One of the soldiers is unlucky, and goes down with a choked-off cry as sparks light him up. The priest flicks its fingers, and the rest all go scattering backwards with enough force to leave divots in their wake. The sheer force of its power nearly bowls Jerrik and Valmir over as it rushes past them.

 _“Pathetic,”_ the lich says. Its raised hand clenches into a fist, and Ilspeth claws at her throat, mouth open in a soundless cry and face going red, then purple. When its hand opens, her body plummets to the floor and lands with a crack. She doesn’t rise again. The other mage snarls. The priest raises its staff. It’s gold, with a carved head like a dragon, and its open mouth shines, a terrible beacon. _“My turn.”_

There is nothing Valmir can do but watch as mages and footmer alike are consumed by a blinding wall of lightning, shielding his face from the onslaught while the air around him hisses. When he lowers his arms, squinting painfully, they’re simply gone. Like they never existed at all, except for the ash drifting through the air, smelling like singed hair and flesh. The priest lowers its arm, the dragon’s mouth still glowing white-hot.

“We need to get that staff,” Jerrik says, low and urgent. “Quick.”

 _“Well?”_ The lich spreads its hands wide. An invitation. _“Will you challenge me too? Or have you learned your place?”_

Valmir draws his sword.

For the first time, they’re in agreement; for the first time, he and Jerrik move as one. They come at the priest from opposite sides, teeth bared and weapons flashing. It disappears in a swirl of ghastly purple light, only to pop back into existence on the other side of the room. Jerrik’s axe cleaves the air a hairsbreadth from Valmir’s eye, pulled back just in time. They dive for cover as a wall of lightning carves a scorching path across the stone floor. Valmir rolls behind a pillar, chest heaving. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he thinks that he ought to be afraid. He _should_ fear a creature who just turned all his former associates to ash. If he had even an ounce of sense left in him, he’d have already made a run for it and left Jerrik to clean up the mess. And yet, all he feels is anger, stronger and brighter than any magic.

But anger alone is not enough, and he’s soon forced to concede that the priest is unlike any foe he’s ever faced. Jerrik isn’t faring much better; try as they might, neither of them can seem to so much as land a blow. They lunge, then fall back, parry and swing and strain, but it remains one step ahead and out of reach. Valmir’s own swordplay feels weak in comparison, Jerrik’s sweeping axe clumsy and slow, and the lich leads them round and round in a merry waltz, only ceasing its onslaught now and again to toy with them before it begins anew.

Already, Valmir can feel himself faltering, despite the fire of his rage. Ash-thickened air clogs his lungs, but their foe has long surpassed the need to breathe. The tell-tale charge of static and raw power builds around him, and he throws himself aside on pure instinct, rolling blindly as lightning splinters the air and cracks stone. The priest cackles something he can’t make out through the ringing in his ears. He staggers upright, smoke in his throat and grit in his teeth. Something grips his elbow, yanks him back behind one of the pillars; he struggles, but it’s only Jerrik, face smudged with soot and beard smoldering.

“The staff,” he yells in Valmir’s face. “We can’t get close to him while he has it.”

“You don’t say!” Valmir yells back. They duck as white light streaks overhead.

 _“Come out and face me like men!”_ The priest’s voice booms, unseen from across the room. _“Or will you and the elf cower like the rest of his filthy brethren?”_

The hilt of Valmir’s sword digs into his palm, and it surely hurts with how tightly he’s gripping it, but he can’t feel it. Not with the blood pumping hot in his veins, driving his anger to a fever pitch. Strange, how being so close to death has made him feel more alive than ever. For the first time, he thinks maybe he envies Jerrik’s ability to take his emotions and convert them into something physical, something powerful and real and able to strike fear anew into the hearts of his enemies. He wants to tear out of his skin. He wants to tear the priest apart. He wants to –

_Hunt._

He grabs Jerrik’s shoulder. “Do it!”

“What?”

“Turn! While there’s still time!” He hurtles away before Jerrik can stop him.

If you had asked Valmir outright, he would have said that he didn’t trust Jerrik (as if he would entertain such a moronic question to begin with). Even discounting the fact that they’d tried to kill each other, what was trust to him? Everyone lied, and manipulated, and used each other to get ahead. In the Thalmor, you either gave the orders, or you obeyed them. There was no such thing as unconditional trust. Not if you planned to survive. But in that moment, leaping over debris and dead bodies, Valmir doesn’t look back. He runs forward, sword in hand, and the lich laughs.

 _“Eager to end our game already?”_ The staff hums in its long grey hand, bones visible through rotted flesh. _“As you wish.”_

Valmir doesn’t bother with a response. He darts out of the way as a wall of lightning ripples across the stone, and feints, blade shimmering like fire in the clashing light. It’s not his usual style at all. He prefers to fight defensively, to use his enemy’s strength against them, goad them into making mistakes. This is all bravado, loud and distracting and foolhardy ( _how very Nordic of you,_ his mind supplies). Sword clashes with staff, deflecting his strike. Dead eyes glow from behind the mask, and it’s so much worse up close than Valmir could have imagined. Pure hatred comes off the lich in waves, along with the stench of a dead thing long since decayed.

He grits his teeth, barely wards off a blow that sends shockwaves up his arms and rattles his bones. He’s within range of the staff now, where the priest can’t use it against him, but it’s all he can do to defend himself, let alone try to snatch it. His opponent wields it like a quarterstaff, raining blows from above with an unrelenting fury. A well-aimed strike catches him where his shoulder meets his neck, and even armored, it’s enough to stagger him. A second hit to his gut takes the wind out of him.

 _“You fight well enough, but I grow tired of this,”_ the priest says, and the mouth of the staff crackles the same white-blue as his eyes. _“Join your friends.”_

A dazzling, horrifying light flares, and Valmir’s vision wipes clean, the breath exploding from his lungs.

 

Clarity returns in fits and starts. The first thing he realizes – he’s not dead. Surprising, but not unwelcome. The second – his vision is beginning to clear, and he’s lying on the floor, chunks of stone digging painfully into his back and side. He coughs.

A dark shape stands between him and the priest, braced in a defensive stance. From when Valmir’s laying, even on all fours, it’s impossibly big. He hears the hitched breathing, smells singed fur; blood drips onto stone, _pat-pat-pat_. The beast lifts its muzzle and snarls. Valmir has never been so glad to see a bear in his life.

The priest hisses something in a language he doesn’t understand, and the lights in the chamber all flicker. The beast – Jerrik – doesn’t waste any time. He barrels in with a thunderous roar, throwing his furry bulk at his opponent with claws and teeth on display. Valmir drags himself into a crouch, wincing. Last time Jerrik had turned, he hadn’t seen most of it. Caught off-guard by fearful surprise and tasked with keeping the horses calm, he couldn’t watch. There was only the aftermath. But he watches now, just for a moment. He has to know.

Thin strands of blood and saliva hang from the bear’s jaws. Its muzzle wrinkles when it shows its teeth, the pink of its gums oddly delicate against the black of its fur. Beast and lich clash and break apart, circling one another while they look for an opening. The priest isn’t as quick to use the staff as it was in the beginning, Valmir notes, and cautious optimism shines through the cracks – its magicka reserves aren’t bottomless after all. When the bear lunges, solid muscle bunches and sharp-tipped paws scrape against stone, dust and debris flying. The lich is fast, but Jerrik is faster in this form, uninhibited by the limitations of human flesh. They come crashing together, and Valmir takes his chance and bolts.

He needs to get behind the priest, and he hears the tell-tale sizzle of lightning. The bear’s answering roar is deafening in its anger, and its pain. He knows what he’ll see before he even turns around – a black heap on the floor with smoke rising from its fur, struggling to get back to its feet while the lich raises its staff for the killing blow. It’s lost all interest in Valmir for the moment, poised to destroy the stronger of its remaining foes, and Valmir can practically taste its triumph. It would be so easy to let it happen.

What happens next, in reality, only takes seconds. But Valmir is beyond himself in those moments, acting on instincts he doesn’t fully understand – _refuses_ to understand – and a wild exhortation of memories flashes through his mind’s eye in a blink: Jerrik nearly beheading him on a snowy mountaintop, their blood red and hot on the white ground. Jerrik shaking his hand a day later. New clothes, new armor, keeping him fed and watered. Bare skin, laced with scars and glistening wet from the bath; bare skin and broken armor, smeared with blood and dirt from battle. A night of code-breaking, where the tensions eased if only for a moment. Jerrik’s heavy body pinning his to the bed, breath curling across his cheek, mouth hot on his neck.

_Aye, I suppose I did pry, and I'll apologize for that._

_Why did you warn me about the bandits?_

_What I said to them about you… that was for show._

_I still know you want me._

_Who were you before you were Thalmor, anyway?_

And in front of it all, Jerrik, throwing himself between Valmir and the priest without hesitation. Making sure Valmir keeps on living.

Valmir’s body moves before his mind registers that he’s moved at all. It seems to him that his feet scarcely touch the ground, so swift and winged that he could spur the birds themselves to envy. His sword arm moves back, and his blade cuts through the dark like a comet, shining moonstone woven with bronze. A wilted grey hand, still clutching its staff, wheels through the air to hit the floor with a clatter. His second strike cleaves the rest of the priest’s arm from its shoulder.

The lich whirls, remaining arm raised, fingers gnarled like claws. Something seizes Valmir’s throat in an iron grip, and _lifts_ ; he gasps soundlessly as his feet leave the ground, air gone. He can’t breathe. He claws at his throat, but the pressure is relentless. He kicks helplessly in mid-air. His blood roars in his ears – or maybe it’s Jerrik roaring, he can’t tell – darkness starting to shimmer around the edges of his vision. At least he has this, he thinks, even with his mouth open, trying for air that won’t come. At least he’ll die fighting. At least his body will be with the other Thalmor, and no one who comes along will know the true story. Nobody will know who he might have allowed himself to become.

A sickening crack echoes across the chamber, and the invisible vice around Valmir’s throat is released. He lands hard and topples to his knees, choking and coughing as he sucks in putrid air. Tears stream down his face. He’s too relieved to care. The staff’s humming dies down to a whisper, then ceases. All that’s left is Valmir’s ragged panting, harsh in the silence. He looks up.

The bear had reared up to its full height – eight, nine, ten feet, tall as the graht-oaks of Valenwood – and torn the priest’s throat out. All that remains is spinal cord, broken clean in half, and a few flaps of torn skin. Valmir isn’t sure if it’s better or worse that there’s no blood. He coughs and spits, then looks back up at the bear, who regards him with flat golden eyes. It drops back down on all fours with a heavy thud, head bowed, and for the first time, Valmir can see how much the transformation costs. Its fur is torn and matted from a dozen wounds, sides heaving, swaying with the effort of remaining upright. Bloody pawprints smear the dust-laden ground where they’d battled. Joints pop, bones crunching and fur shifting, and Jerrik sprawls out gracelessly with wild black hair and ugly red scorch marks where the lightning ripped open his flesh.

_“Thank you, strangers. For a moment, I thought all was lost.”_

In all the confusion, Valmir had forgotten the ghost.

He’d been immobilized during the battle, no doubt thanks to one of the priest’s spells, but he’s free now, and he stands before them, translucent in the torchlight. It’s hard to make out any distinct features, but he is – was – human, still wearing a full set of armor. If he finds anything strange about the tableau before him, he keeps it to himself.

 _“My name is Valdar. I am the one who bound the dragon priest Hevnoraak to this tomb generations again, to make sure he did not awaken.”_ He surveys them. _“He has been feeding off of me. My strength is near-gone, and I thought the ones who arrived before you could stop him. But they were arrogant, and he was too powerful.”_

“The ones before me,” Valmir bites out, voice rasping against his tender throat. “Why did they come?”

 _“I do not know,”_ Valdar says. _“But you have saved this land from a great evil, and now, I may finally rest.”_ He gestures to what’s left of the priest’s body. _“Take his mask, as your trophy and your reward. May it serve you better than it did him.”_

“Wait,” Valmir starts to say, but it’s too late. Valdar closes his eyes, and his body dissolves, light scattering like petals on the wind.

_“Thank you…”_

And then it’s just Valmir and Jerrik and a swath of broken bodies, alone in the tomb. He looks around. The nearest soldier’s face is turned towards him, twisted with a fear that will never fade. Valmir recognizes him from the Embassy. “Why did they come?” he says again, to no one in particular.

The answering voice makes him jump. “You know why.”

“No.” But he does know.

Jerrik doesn’t reply. He drags himself into a sitting position, moving like a man twice his age. He won’t look at Valmir. When he can stand, he limps across the room to retrieve his armor. Valmir listens to the sounds of him dressing and stares down at his hands. None of this feels real. _He_ doesn’t feel real, sitting in an ancient tomb surrounded by bodies that aren’t supposed to be there.

When Jerrik finally reemerges, he goes to the mask and staff. The mask is puddled in an empty robe; the staff still has a skeletal hand attached to it. Jerrik pulls it off and tosses it aside, then tucks both artifacts beneath his arm. “Forelhost was a summer picnic compared to this.” His voice sounds odd. Resigned, almost, and hollow. “It’s only going to get worse from here on out. Best be prepared for it." 

“Why did you save me?” Valmir hears himself ask.

(It’s not a matter of wanting to know. He _has_ to know.)

Jerrik finally looks at him out of the corner of his eye. Like he can’t bear to look at Valmir head-on all of a sudden. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Valmir hauls himself to his feet, even as his entire body rebels against the motion. “I asked you first.” Jerrik turns away when he staggers forward, but Valmir grabs his face, fingers hooking behind his jaw, and forces him to meet his eyes once more. “Look at me, you coward!”

Jerrik’s eyes are full of something Valmir can’t name, and he braces himself for a fight that doesn’t come. Instead, those big, scarred hands curl around Valmir’s forearms and draw him closer, close enough that their breath mingles in the limited space between them. His lashes are thick, and his blue-black eyes are ringed with purple. It occurs suddenly to Valmir that Jerrik is very, very tired.

“After everything,” he says. “Why? Why didn’t you just let me die?”

Jerrik’s thumb strokes over the soft skin of Valmir’s inner wrist, where his pulse flutters frantic like a newly-caged bird.

“I can’t,” he says.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter are in the end notes.

There has to be an explanation, Valmir insists all the way back to Markarth. Some piece of the puzzle that, once in place, will tell him why the Thalmor sent a battalion of agents to the exact location he’d once been ordered to forget. There has to be one, but he can’t think of it in his current state; his thoughts scrabble uselessly over one another, unable to find purchase. Jerrik doesn’t respond, but his mood grows noticeably fouler the longer Valmir talks in circles, a storm cloud brewing over his head. It’s well into morning by the time the city comes into view, bronze-capped spires rising over the hills. He glares at Valmir, hunched over his horse’s neck.

“Give it a rest, elf. You know why they were there.”

Valmir ignores him. “Estormo,” he says, as they trot up the path that will take them to the stables. “It was Estormo testing me, it had to be. Or maybe trying to keep it for himself. He and Ancano always did have designs above their station.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

The jab shuts Valmir up, but not for long. It’s appalling, undignified behavior that goes against everything he’s ever had hammered into him, and he still can’t stop the words from spewing out, like pus from a wound. He has to get it out, or it will poison him. There’s a brief respite while they take turns bathing, but as soon as they’re back into the room and their civilian garb, Jerrik smacks him hard enough to make his ears ring.

“Enough!” He grabs Valmir’s shoulders, gives him a shake. “Don’t you get it yet? You’re just a tool to them!”

“Shut up.”

“You are. You’re a tool, and not a particularly useful one at that.” His fingers dig into Valmir’s already-bruised flesh. “That’s all anyone is to them. You should know that.”

Valmir tears himself away, shoulder throbbing. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. Ignoring the icy hands squeezing at his heart, making it hard to breathe. “You could never understand – could never _hope_ to understand – “

“You’re right,” Jerrik says, colder still. “I’ll never understand why you grovel like a dog for that lot when they don’t give a shit about you.”

Valmir curses him out and leaves the room, slamming the door so hard it shakes the rafters. The innkeeper yells after him as he stomps off, but most of it is lost to the front door swinging shut behind him. He half-expects Jerrik to come after him, but minutes pass while he lingers in a little alcove across the street, and the door to the inn remains closed. A nearby guard eyes him suspiciously, and he moves on before he attracts any more unwanted attention. He’s heading towards the market when it hits him.

Without Jerrik’s hovering, he can finally meet with Commander Ondolemar. He swallows the laugh that bubbles up out of sheer relief. He’ll request an urgent audience; he’ll break down the doors if he has to. Whatever it takes to tell the commander his tale, arrange to have Jerrik and the masks delivered into his waiting hands, and hope that it’s enough to absolve him of the past few weeks. He looks like he just crawled out of one of the fouler planes of Oblivion, but maybe that will lend credence to his story. He turns the corner and melts into the crowd, heading for Understone Keep. He makes it halfway across the bridge before the doubts start to set in. After all, they’ve only met once, briefly. There’s no guarantee that the commander will remember him, let alone be merciful.

_What if he doesn’t believe you?_

Valmir’s foot hovers above the steps at the foot of the bridge.

Everything he’s done makes him look like a traitor, by his own design no less. He doesn’t even have the masks to prove that he’s telling the truth.

He lowers his foot. The keep, which had appeared a beacon of hope only moments ago, now has the sweet shimmer of a mirage, too good to be true. He turns away, then back, sweaty hands clasped behind him. He recalls now that he first read about Valthume in one of the commander’s old reports, where it had been dismissed as nonsense. Did Ondolemar truly not know? Or was it a falsehood constructed to draw attention away from the schemes of the higher-ups?

He no longer knows what to believe. The railing is blessedly solid at his back, grounding him, and he leans into it. His head spins, and all around him, Markarth’s walls creep higher and higher. Like a giant fist closing around him, one inch at a time.

 

Jerrik is drinking wine directly from the bottle when Valmir comes back into the room with all the force and purpose of a hurricane. He makes no move to stop Valmir from grabbing his pack and upending it on the bed. Clothes, provisions, odds and ends; everything comes tumbling out and spills across the sheets, bouncing onto the floor. Droplets of wine glisten like rubies in Jerrik’s mustache and beard, bottle close to tipping in his slack hand. He watches Valmir sift through the mess, then tear into the other bags, one by one.

“Where are they?” Valmir’s nostrils flare. He stands in the center of the wreckage, a lone survivor. Jerrik looks at him blankly, and he slams his fist against the dresser. “Raghot and Hevnoraak! Where are they?”

“I haven’t had Raghot’s mask since we left Riften.” Jerrik’s lip curls. “You can’t still think I’m that stupid, can you?”

Valmir hurls a bottle of ale at him. He ducks in his chair and it shatters, amber liquid running down sandstone. Valmir gropes for another bottle. There isn’t one, so he throws Jerrik’s helm instead. It bounces off the wall and rolls away with a clatter. It’s not enough. He could tear the entire building down, raze it to dust until what little is left crumbles between his fingers and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Everything wrong with my life right now,” he says, “is because of you.”

“Hard to accept you’re nothing to them, isn’t it?”

“I wish you had killed me back at Forelhost. At least I would have died with honor.”

Jerrik laughs. “You think dying a Thalmor pawn would have brought you _honor_?”

Valmir’s sword is still strapped to his hip. He’s fast, but Jerrik is faster; it’s barely in his hand before Jerrik is on his feet. The blade quivers when he stabs it into the tabletop, biting deep into the wood. “You really wanna do this now?”

“I changed my mind,” Valmir says. “I should have let Hevnoraak kill you after all.”

Clothes and trinkets go flying as they hit the bed, trading blows. Neither of them cries out. The only sounds are panting and the occasional grunt, and the rhythmic blows of fists pounding into skin and bone. It’s a short fight, but brutal nonetheless – Jerrik’s nose is bleeding by the time he pins Valmir, one arm across his chest and a fresh bruise blooming high on his cheek. Valmir struggles, but Jerrik’s weight keeps him pinned right where he is.

“When will you get it through your thick skull?” There’s blood smeared across Jerrik’s teeth, startlingly red. “The Thalmor will never care about you. They’ll get rid of you as soon as they’ve used you up, and if you don’t believe me, then go crawling back to them and find out.”

Valmir jams his heel into Jerrik’s knee. It’s not the best angle, but it’s enough to make Jerrik yelp, some of the pressure letting up. He swings wildly, limbs flailing until his elbow connects with the side of Jerrik’s face. They go crashing to the floor, scuffling anew. The table goes belly-up along with them, plates and silverware flying every which way. At this rate, some detached part of Valmir notes, they’re going to destroy a room at every single one of Skyrim’s inns. He’s furious, but Jerrik is still stronger – stupidly, bestially strong – and pins him again on the crumpled-up rug, straddling his hips. His thighs flex on either side of Valmir, rock-solid, and Valmir hates that even now he can’t help but notice, he can’t help but _want_ , he’s become so _weak_ –

“You’re disposable,” he says. “And killing me won’t make that any less true.”

“Why?” Valmir’s voice cracks, Auri-El take him. “Why did you save me?”

Jerrik kisses him.

Valmir had expected many things: a blow to the face, a cutting response, indifference. Nothing so painfully intimate as a kiss. Jerrik’s lips are softer than he thought they’d be, and he’s frozen in place, conflicting emotions a tempest brewing inside him. Jerrik takes the advantage of the moment to coax his mouth open, grip on Valmir’s wrists tightening, and a wretched little noise bubbles up from Valmir’s chest. Now that Jerrik has bathed, he smells clean and sharp, animalistic in the way he invades Valmir’s senses, and the length of his body is hot and hard against Valmir’s own. He’s drowning, he’s sure he’s drowning in it, he can’t _breathe_ –

Jerrik’s thighs squeeze his hips, muscles bunching as he shifts his weight, and something thick presses at the juncture of Valmir’s hip. Valmir’s traitorous cock twitches in response, because his body has apparently disengaged from his brain and all rational thought therein to act on pure instinct, and teeth sink into his lip. No blood, but hard enough to hurt, and the pain ignites something familiar enough to bring him back to himself. He surges into the kiss at the same moment that Jerrik lets go of his wrists and they crash together like waves, like they could fill the room and flood the hallways until the entire inn is submerged. If he drowns, he will take Markarth with him.

This time, he’s the one who bites at Jerrik’s mouth, who buries his hands in the damp dark lushness of Jerrik’s hair and _pulls,_ relishing the way it makes him snarl, hips bucking like he can fuck Valmir right through their clothes and into the floor. But he’s not that easy ( _not so easy as you_ – a hot shameful voice in his head that sounds like Jerrik’s), and his fingers hook into Valmir’s flesh and grapple him to the floor, forearm pinning Valmir’s throat with his kiss-bruised lips just out of reach.

“I think it’s long past time you learned your place,” he says.

Those simple words, uttered soft against Valmir’s cheek, send a bolt of heat straight to his balls, hips flexing of their own accord. He clamps down on his tongue, but his breath still catches, comes out rough through his nose instead. Jerrik’s arm isn’t cutting off his air supply, not yet, but the pressure on his collarbones and throat promises retribution if he fights back. The head of his cock is already sticky-wet against his thigh. Jerrik’s free hand traces the line of his jaw, thumb stroking at the soft hollow behind his ear. Valmir’s throat aches.

“And where’s that?” he croaks. Tension coils tight in his gut, entire body taut as a bowstring.

“At my feet.”

The whimper that escapes Valmir this time is audible, the brew of lust-shame-anger churning noxious inside him until he thinks he might be sick even as his cock strains at the front of his trousers. A faint smile hovers at the corners of Jerrik’s mouth.

“Nothing to say?” His blunt nails scrape the shell of Valmir’s ear, catching the tip painfully. “Then that’s where we’ll start.”

It takes Valmir a minute, head all fuzzy the way it is. “What?”

Jerrik sits back on his haunches, weight and warmth suddenly gone. There’s a warning glint in his eye, gold shimmering in the blue-black of them as he cocks his head. “Strip.”

Valmir stares up at him, gut threatening to rebel. It’s one thing to be forced, so he can blame it later on the drink or the cold or a pair of too-strong hands. It’s one thing to _lose_. But to willingly lay himself bare, to be complicit…

He doesn’t even see Jerrik pull the knife. His hand is empty, and then it isn’t, and the blade rests flat on Valmir’s belly. It’s the same serrated hunting knife he tried to take on his first night in Jerrik’s company, bone hilt worn smooth and blade discolored from frequent use. “Strip, or I’ll do it for you.”

The noise from the rest of the inn provides a muffled backdrop, like the insects that drone from the treetops in the summer heat, but inside the room it’s utterly still. They’re on the brink of something that can’t be undone, though neither of them will allow mention of it to pass their lips in the days that follow. Valmir looks at the knife. He can resist, if he wants. He has no doubt Jerrik will rend every last stitch from his body if he does – _or just enough to take what he wants_ , the little voice in his head amends, and the resulting thrill makes his whole body flush hot.

But then their eyes meet again and he sees what he failed to recognize the first time – compassion, peering out from behind something wild and raw. He’s being given an out, if he needs it. Jerrik won’t force him to reveal how much he truly wants this. He’ll play the part, leaving the illusion to remain intact, and strangely, it’s this that Valmir’s pride can’t handle. He won’t tolerate anything verging on tenderness. Not now, and not with this human. He pushes Jerrik’s hand away.

“Fine. Get off me.”

The flat of the blade taps his thigh. A warning or an acknowledgment, he’s not sure which. Maybe both. “Make it good.”

Valmir tries to remain cool, detached, but his trembling hands give him away before he’s so much as taken off his boots. Jerrik settles into the one chair that remains upright, lounging with his legs spread and the knife laying across his knee. He makes no move to hide the massive bulge nestled between his thighs. If anything, he spreads his legs wider, like he’s daring Valmir to object. Valmir swallows with a mouth that feels like it’s coated in sand. He rips off his tunic to hide the movement of his throat. It lands carelessly in the mess at his feet, and Jerrik shakes his head, disgusted. The edge of the blade shines in the candlelight, reddish-brown. “Put some effort into it, for gods’ sake.”

The breeches come off one inch at a time. Valmir feels like an idiot, but the look in Jerrik’s eyes helps. Nobody’s ever looked at him like that before. He starts to strip off his smallclothes in the same manner, but Jerrik shakes his head and motions him forward with a crook of his finger. Valmir edges closer, wary, and wills himself not to flinch when the knife trails along the outside of his thigh. It’s cold against his overheated skin. He stares straight ahead, focusing on the cracks in the wall, but he still flinches when the blade slices his last remaining garment away, leaving it to fall uselessly at his feet. His cock slaps against his stomach, the tip peeking flushed and slick from his foreskin, and he has to lace his fingers behind his back to keep from shielding himself with his hands. There’s nowhere to hide, not with the way Jerrik’s pupils are blown so wide his eyes look black, looking at him like he wants to eat Valmir alive.

“Satisfied?”

“Not in the slightest.” Jerrik slouches back in his seat. “On your hands and knees.”

For all his doubt, all his faults and sins, Valmir was – _is_ – Thalmor, and his very soul rebels at the thought of willingly getting on all fours for a Nord, even as his body aches more fiercely than ever. His nails dig into his palms. Jerrik’s eyes narrow.

“You heard me, elf. Hands and knees.”

He's already damned either way. He kneels. The floor is cold beneath his palms. He can’t meet Jerrik’s eyes, but fingers card through his short hair, nails scratching his scalp, and he twitches.

“Good,” Jerrik murmurs, and his boots come into view. These aren’t his usual fare, but new, dyed black leather polished to a gleam. One of them nudges Valmir’s hand. “See these?” Valmir nods. “Kiss them.”

Valmir’s head snaps up, a retort burning on his tongue, but Jerrik is smirking, cheek propped up on his knuckles while he waits. It’s almost playful, like he _wants_ Valmir to resist, to struggle and rage and curse his name, and for the first time, Valmir sees shades of the boy cocky enough to defy one Daedric Prince and bargain with another. He clearly intends to see how far he can push things, and it’s this that strengthens Valmir’s resolve.

“It’s going to take more than that,” he says, and ducks his head to his task. He’s obliged to bend awkwardly to do it, his limbs too long and stiff, but his lips finally brush cool leather. First the right, then the left. It’s easier if he doesn’t think about what he’s doing. His education had shown him the value of separating mind from body. Of course, Jerrik is having none of it, the bastard.

“Oh, come on. You can do better than that.” He shoves Valmir’s head down, and the taste of leather fills his mouth, smearing on his tongue before he’s released. He rears back, scrubbing his lips on his forearm, and Jerrik just grins at him, shameless. He’d taken the opportunity to free himself from the confines of his breeches, and he strokes himself lazily, base to tip while he watches Valmir watching him. “I was going to make you lick them, but it’s clear you need to learn some manners first.”

“ _I_ need manners?”

“There you go again. Did I say you could talk?” Jerrik gives him one of those looks that are just a little too wild to be human, eyes dark, and Valmir shuts his mouth, throat bobbing. “Come here.”

It’s been a long time since he’s done this – he’d preferred to have his partners service him in the past, afraid that word might get out about his preferences being… _inappropriate_ for a superiorly-bred mer if he requested otherwise. He’d never say it out loud, but Jerrik’s cock is the sort he’s always liked best, not too long but thick enough to make his jaw ache, and his own throbs when he takes it in his mouth. Jerrik’s hand rests on his head, but he doesn’t push, not at first. He lets Valmir get used to the weight of it on his tongue, the way it stretches his jaw and nudges at his throat, and gods know he’s missed this, being with other males; Jerrik might be a savage and a Nord, but Valmir desires him fiercely and shamefully, wants him while hating himself for the wanting, and he moans when the toe of Jerrik’s boot nudges between his legs.

“You dream about this, don’t you?” It’s not really a question. He pulls Valmir’s mouth off his cock and rubs the head on Valmir's chin, his cheek, smearing spit and slick across his face. “Men using your mouth like this. Treating you like a cheap whore, acting all _superior_.” Valmir makes a noise like a leaky kettle and Jerrik looks down at him, lip curling in mock disappointment. “Isn’t that right? Say yes.”

“Yes,” Valmir gasps, and Jerrik shoves his cock back in his mouth and fucks his face until there are tears welling in his eyes and drool running down his chin, his breath coming in sharp little pants whenever Jerrik lets him have a second to breathe. It’s horribly undignified – it’s _humiliating_ – and he’s never been so hard in his life. Jerrik remains silent, except for the occasional grunt or shifting of his hips when he hits a particularly good spot, but then Valmir sucks on the head and makes him growl, throbbing on Valmir’s tongue.

“Do that again,” he orders, voice raspy, and Valmir does until they’re both breathing hard and Jerrik’s nails are digging into his scalp and his cock is practically dripping on the floorboards, and then Jerrik’s boot starts rubbing at him again and he jolts, gagging on Jerrik’s cock as it slides back down his throat. “Go on, then,” Jerrik says. “Get yourself off.”

Valmir doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s so wound up that it only takes a few strokes for that familiar ache to start building, so good it almost hurts when he comes all over Jerrik’s boots with a choked-off moan. Jerrik isn’t far behind him, holding Valmir’s head still while he floods his mouth and forces him to swallow. Valmir tries, but there’s more than he can manage, and some of it spills over his lips, hot and bitter. Jerrik slumps back in his chair, a little flushed with exertion but no worse for the wear, and points at his boots, where Valmir’s cooling seed is splattered. “Now clean up your mess.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Jerrik is very serious, as it turns out. Valmir cleans it up with his tongue, or tries to, but only succeeds in leaving the boots smeared with spit and traces of Jerrik’s come. Jerrik shakes his head as he examines them. “Well, now you’ve gone and made a mess of my boots. You’ll have to be punished. Get on the bed.”

“You _told_ me to – ”

“What did I tell you about speaking out of turn?” The point of the knife tickles Valmir’s collarbone, then slides beneath his chin. Jerrik lifts his chin with the flat of the blade, forcing Valmir to meet his eyes. There’s a thin ring of gold around his pupils. His cock is still hard. “I’m nowhere near done with you. So when I tell you to get on the bed, you get on the bed. Understand?”

“Yes,” Valmir says, heart still pounding. His throat is sore and his jaw hurts, cock soft now that he’s come, and this is where the shame normally sets in, but instead there’s just anticipation. Anticipation, and fear.

“Say ‘yes, Jerrik’.” 

“No ‘yes, sir’? I’m surprised.”

“No,” Jerrik says, eyes fixed on Valmir’s, and there’s that odd glimmer again – not compassion, exactly, but like he’s lowering the mask for a second. “I want you to say my name. A _Nord’s_ name. I want to know you know exactly who you’re doing this with. Understand?”

“Yes.” Valmir swallows, ignoring his aching throat. “Jerrik.”

“Good.” The mask snaps back into place, and Jerrik smirks at him, exaggerated and arrogant. “Look at you. So obedient now that you’ve gotten a taste. I should just bend you over here and rut you like the eager dog you are.” The blade is a cold caress on his lower lip. “But I’ve decided I want to see your face while I take what I’m owed. Get on the bed, on your back.”

It’s unwise to let Jerrik tie him up, he knows, coldly aware of the potential danger now that some of his clarity has returned. But the part of him that got him into this mess in the first place wants to see what else lies in store, and the surge of helplessness in his gut when he tugs at the leather strips binding his wrists to the bedposts is heady enough to make his spent cock twitch with interest. There’s also the matter of watching Jerrik strip down to nothing – the man is solid muscle overlaid with scarred tan flesh, the memory of a thousand battles carved into his skin. There’s nothing delicate about him in the slightest. It makes Valmir’s mouth water. He lays there while Jerrik looms over him, deciding his fate, and it makes him hot all over, like his skin doesn’t fit right anymore. This is why he’s defective, that same detached part of his mind observes. A true Thalmor wouldn’t welcome this defeat. He wriggles his wrists, testing the give while his thighs are pressed open, Jerrik’s bulk forcing them wide.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” It’s almost conversational, the way Jerrik asks it while he slicks his fingers with oil. Valmir nods. There doesn’t seem to be any point to lying. It hadn’t happened often, but when it had…

He jumps, muscles tightening in his stomach and thighs when those same fingers nudge against him, bringing him back to the present. “How long has it been?” They dip inside him and retreat, starting the slow process of working him open. Jerrik’s fingers are thick and rough and it burns a little whenever he twists them, coaxing stifled grunts from Valmir’s throat. “Tell me.”

“A long time,” he says thickly, and it’s out of his mouth before he realizes that he hadn’t even considered lying. “Not since, ah… since Valenwood,” and then he loses the rest of whatever he was going to say to an incomprehensible noise as Jerrik palms his still-tender cock. Between the fingers in his arse and the rough hand massaging him, it’s so much – it’s _too_ much – and he doesn’t know if he can take it much longer or if it even feels good, but he’s starting to get hard again all the same. Sweat trickles down his neck and dots his chest, soaking into the sheets at his back. He doesn’t realize he’s clenching his teeth until Jerrik’s fingers are in his mouth, prying them apart.

“Open.” He punctuates the demand with a rough drag of the fingers inside Valmir, crooking them upwards, and Valmir’s back leaves the bed in a perfect arch. Somewhere in the middle of all this, Jerrik had managed to grab a vial, and he uncorks it now with his teeth and spits out the stopper. It’s a stamina potion, judging from the smell, earthy and dark. Valmir drinks what he can. Jerrik licks the rest off his lips and chin, which should be disgusting, but then the potion floods his veins and he’s hard all over again, the sudden rush of blood leaving him dizzy. At the same time, he eases his fingers out of Valmir, and then there’s something bigger and thicker prodding at him in their place.

He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said it had been a long time. His first orgasm should have relaxed him, and maybe it had to some extent, but he needs to come again so desperately that it feels like a distant memory. He sinks his teeth into his lip to keep quiet when the head of Jerrik’s cock breaches him, and tastes iron on his tongue. Jerrik’s fingertips dig into his thighs, folding them back towards Valmir’s body; there will be bruises come morning. He bores down on Valmir, and his hair hangs around them like a thick black curtain, tickling Valmir’s cheek. He never once looks away. Valmir closes his eyes. He can’t stand the thought of being stared at like that while this is happening. It’s too intense, too… _intimate_. A rough hand lets go of his thigh, takes hold of his chin.

“Look at me.”

He looks. Jerrik stares down at him, eyes dark but for that thin ring of gold around his pupils, blazing like an eclipse. “There’s no hiding here,” he says, and it comes out as a growl. Valmir can practically feel the words dragging against his skin. “You don’t take your eyes off me until I say so. Got it?”

“Yes,” Valmir says, or tries to say, but then Jerrik drives the rest of the way in and punches the breath from his lungs.

He doesn’t try to move right away. There’s that, at least. Just crouches there while he lets Valmir get used to him, every muscle tensed with the effort of remaining still. His eyes are completely gold now, shining with equal parts animal hunger and greed. Like Valmir belongs to him – like he’s Jerrik’s for the taking. Right then, he imagines he is.

His erection had wilted in his struggle to adjust, but it’s returning now, trapped between their bodies and rubbing slick against his belly. The coarse hair on Jerrik’s torso and thighs scrapes against him. He’s never been with anyone with this much hair. He strains against the bindings on his wrists, trying to rub himself against any part of Jerrik he can reach, but it’s no use. All he succeeds in doing is frustrating himself further, and he huffs out a breath through his nose, biting his lip. Now that the initial stretch and discomfort have faded, he’s starting to remember why he enjoyed being fucked in the first place. When Jerrik moves again, pulling out slow and holding it for a beat before sliding back in, stardust shimmers behind Valmir’s eyes. He moans.

“Will you look at that,” Jerrik says, and runs his tongue across sharp white teeth. “I finally found out what you’re good for.”

There is no tenderness to be found here. Jerrik pounds into him with a singular, brutal focus, the bed creaking in protest beneath their combined weight. He’s practically folding Valmir in half, gripping his hips; Valmir’s body hurts, but there’s a deep, throbbing core of pleasure there that refuses to be denied, and it pulses inside him whenever Jerrik thrusts. He fucks Valmir like he really is taking something he’s owed, like a man dying of thirst at the edge of an oasis, and Valmir will remember to take satisfaction in that later, once he’s regained his senses. He’s not the only one who wanted this. Who _needed_ it. Needed, because he can no longer deny it, not with Jerrik whispering filthy things in his ear, scorching across his skin like a brand – things that will never leave this bed, this room, but that permanently mark him all the same. When Jerrik slides his hand between their bodies and grips Valmir’s cock, it only takes a few strokes before he’s coming again, and his mind goes mercifully blank.

Jerrik doesn’t stop.

He keeps stroking, gentler now but persistent, still moving in time with each glide on his hand on slick, come-stained skin, and Valmir’s body lights up in protest. It’s not long before he’s writhing beneath Jerrik, nerve endings on fire, but he doesn’t ask him to stop. Words are beyond him at the moment. He gropes for them, finds only the blood pounding in his ears and _pain-pleasure-pain_ crashing over him like surf breaking over rocks on the beach. He can’t get his hands free. There’s nothing to do but lay there and take it, and somehow, impossibly, he feels himself growing hard again in the callused heat of Jerrik’s hand. He wonders what was in that potion.

“I can’t,” he croaks, and Jerrik lets go of his cock to cradle his hips, doing something with the angle that makes Valmir’s body seize and arch, a long groan bubbling up in his throat.

“You can,” Jerrik murmurs, almost soothing. His smile is wicked.

This time, he fucks Valmir slow; almost tender, but relentless all the same. Valmir bucks against him, baring his teeth to keep back the animal noises shredding the inside of his throat. Pleasure starts to edge out the pain of overstimulation, but it’s still too much too soon. He’s all wound up in the heat and the noise of it, and beneath all of it, there’s something building. Something almost cruel in its intensity, building low in his body – his thighs, his balls, his gut – and he whimpers uncertainly, muscles clenching. It grows, pressing against him from the inside out and it feels too big now, like his skin can’t contain it.

“I can’t.” His voice breaks. “It’s too much – “

“You can.”

Jerrik’s teeth close on his earlobe, tongue hot on the soft flesh. He bites his lip, fingers flexing uselessly overhead. It’s tangible, the same way that magic is when it fills the air, and his entire body aches with it. It feels like it’s going to tear him apart. And then it _rips_ through him all at once, sudden and volatile as a summer storm, and he comes from nothing but the feeling of Jerrik moving inside him, wringing him dry. Jerrik’s mouth covers his, tongue sloppy and teeth pricking his lips. He swallows Valmir’s pained sounds whole. Valmir is so far gone that he barely notices Jerrik come.

Afterwards, though, there’s shame – it always sets in eventually. _You let him do that to you,_ he thinks, rubbing the raw pink skin around his wrists after Jerrik unties him. The marks won’t fade for at least a day. _You licked his boots, sucked his cock, let him fuck you._ He can feel the remains of Jerrik’s come leaking out. A shiver of disgust runs through him. He can still feel Jerrik’s lips against his, his cheeks and chin irritated from where the man’s beard attacked his skin. Between the dragon priest and this, there’s nothing left in him. He’s sure he could sleep for a year.

A heavy hand cups his shoulder. “Here.” Jerrik has returned, bearing a wet cloth. The bruise on his cheek has already faded, and his loose hair spills over his bare shoulder as he bends over Valmir, pressing the cloth into his hand. “Thought you might want to clean up.”

Valmir jerks away from him, curling on his side. “Don’t touch me.” The look in Jerrik’s eyes makes him want to stab something. He has no _right_ to look at Valmir like that. Jerrik mutters something under his breath, and his footsteps move away. There’s the sound of bottles being uncorked, and liquid sloshing against metal. Valmir takes advantage of the distraction to cover himself with the quilt, uncaring of the stone bed beneath. It’s no worse than sleeping on the ground. He hears something being set on the nightstand, and Jerrik’s shadow falls over him briefly, wavering in the torchlight.

“Drink that when you can. It’ll help.”

Another moment’s hesitation, like he’s deciding whether or not to say something else. Then, he steps away. There’s a rustle of cloth, the jingle and scrape of buckles and leather; the door opens and closes, and Valmir is alone. He drains the goblet in one go. It’s wine, dry and bitter with a floral aftertaste. He can still taste Jerrik on his lips, staining his tongue, his throat, his insides. He smashes the cup against the far wall. It doesn’t leave a mark.

 

Valmir is unconscious only minutes later, as he should be – Jerrik put enough sleeping draught in his wine to knock out a horse. He still checks to make sure the elf is breathing before he leaves the inn altogether. He’s not going far, but he takes the long way around to avoid being tailed. Coming to an Imperial-aligned hold had been risky, but unavoidable. He’d have to make sure he was seen in a few other places over the next few days, muddy the waters. Nobody’s following him, but he keeps glancing over his shoulder anyway.

The Shrine of Talos is tucked away in a shadowy alcove at the edge of the market district, neglected in the years following the Markarth Incident. It’s nondescript, nothing to signify there was once something of importance there, save a heavy bronze door overgrown with vines. Nobody bothers to guard it; there’s nothing to steal. Jerrik slips inside, lets the door shut gently behind him. Empty stone walls and alcoves like eyeless sockets greet him, benches cobwebbed and dust layered thickly on every surface. There were once trappings here, he’d been told – a statue, a shrine, an offering tray – but those are long gone. Only lifeless iron braziers and a threadbare rug remain. It’s dark, but not so dark he can’t see the hooded figure sitting in the first row of pews.

“Odd choice for a meeting place.”

Even before the figure turns around, he can hear the amusement in Ondolemar’s voice. “I can’t exactly have you come to the Keep, now can I?”

“Fair enough.” He sits in the pew behind Ondolemar, elbows braced on his knees and aching all the way down to his damned soul. At this point, he’d slaughter everyone in Markarth for a decent night’s sleep. “You received Raghot’s mask?”

“Some time ago. And Valthume?”

Jerrik hands over the burlap sack he’d tied to his belt. Inside, Hevnoraak hums. He’d taken the liberty of stashing it elsewhere while Valmir was out of the room. Ondolemar takes it and peers inside long enough to confirm that it is indeed a dragon priest’s mask, then nods and cinches the bag tight.

“I expected no less.” His long, aquiline nose wrinkles, and he looks at Jerrik more closely this time, a faint smirk on his lips. “Judging from the stench, you were successful in more ways than one.”

Jerrik’s jaw clenches. Hearing it phrased that way rubs him wrong for reasons he can’t quite name and doesn’t want to examine. He shoves aside the memory of Valmir’s soft, slack mouth and desperate eyes. “If you wanna call it that.”

“Now you know,” Ondolemar says, quiet even in the silence surrounding them. “This is why I needed you.”

“How did you know?” He has to ask. “That he was…”

“We were at the same party once, not so long ago,” Ondolemar says, flicking a speck of dust from the sleeve of his crisp black robes. Pleasant but vague as ever, and Jerrik knows there’s no point in pressing him. “How’s his progress?”

“He’s stubborn.”

“So are you.”

Jerrik cracks a smile at that. “I can see why you think he’ll be useful, I’ll give you that. He’s smart enough to stay alive.”

“High praise, coming from you,” Ondolemar says dryly. “I’m afraid I’m going to need more from you than a perfunctory effort from here on out, however.”

“Fucking him isn’t what I’d call perfunctory.”

“The seeds of doubt you’ve sown are still growing in his heart. They’re there, but they need time, and nourishment. Fucking him, as you so crudely put it, is but one part of the process.”

“Alright, alright.” Jerrik shifts his weight, wood creaking beneath him. The thought of continuing to fuck Valmir isn’t supposed to make him feel anything, but the beast sharing his skin stirs, memories of skin and heat and sweat still fresh in both their minds. “I get it.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now, we have a lot to discuss, and not much time to do it in. You’re sure he won’t wake?”

“The dose I gave him could put down a mammoth. He’s not going anywhere, trust me.”

Ondolemar smiles, all white teeth and glittering beetle-black eyes in the gloom.

“Very well. Let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra tags: pre-sex violence, somewhat dubious consent, rough sex, degradation/humiliation kink, blowjobs, sex magic (sort of), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, general after-sex self-loathing, refused aftercare.


	8. Epilogue

“What are we doing here?”

“You’ll see.”

The last rays of a dying sun fall across Whiterun’s vast plains, and Valmir sneezes, the long grass tickling his nose. Jerrik is being irritatingly mysterious again, dragging him halfway across the province with no real explanation; as far as he knows, there are no artifacts to be uncovered here. The week prior, they’d cleared out a nest of bandits, but that had been strictly to turn a profit. The gold and jewels had gone to food and travel expenses, and neither of them brought up the deal they’d made all those weeks ago in Riften, back when Valmir was still trying to play him for a fool. The rules of the game have changed since then. Day melts into twilight, the first stars emerging, and Valmir slits his eyes at Jerrik, drumming his fingers impatiently against his knee.

“How long are we going to wait?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Tell me what’s going on, then. You’re boring me.”

“Quit complaining.” Jerrik slings an arm around his shoulders, and he stiffens as the man’s beard caresses his cheek, lips brushing his temple. He’s still not sure if he likes these casually possessive touches, but his body does. “Unless you want me to really give you something to complain about?”

“Get off me,” Valmir grumbles, elbowing his way out of Jerrik’s grasp. His skin prickles when Jerrik laughs, deep and full-bellied.

“You ever gonna stop acting like you don’t like it when I touch you?” His eyes flash, gold as the grass and the sky and the stars. “Or is that just part of the fun?”

Valmir is saved from having to answer by the approaching drumbeat of hooves. He twists to see who’s bearing down on them, hand on the hilt of his sword, and his blood runs cold and sluggish in his veins.

The rider approaches, garbed in ghostly blue, and leaves the long grass undisturbed in his wake. His steed is frost-white against the sky, stars speckling its flanks and eyes black and cold as a skull’s, and just as empty. Both man and horse face straight ahead, but there is nothing atop the rider’s shrouded shoulders, save a horrible blankness where his head and neck should be. Valmir starts to rise, but Jerrik grabs his arm, drawing him back.

“Wait,” he says.

The headless rider passes by them, mere feet from where they huddle in the field, and circles back, mount shaking its seafoam mane with a toss of its head. Despite its lack of features, there’s something about the way the spirit holds itself that suggests impatience, and Jerrik begins to strip away his clothing.

“You cannot _possibly_ be serious,” Valmir says.

“It’s the only way to keep up.” Jerrik shrugs off his tunic, glances at Valmir while he does it. “Unless you want to stay here?”

Valmir makes a disgusted noise, but he keeps quiet, eyes averted while Jerrik shifts. There are some things a civilized mer will never grow used to, no matter how many times he bears them witness, but his curiosity is enough to outstrip his more rational feelings on the matter. The creature stays on all fours while he climbs on its back, gripping handfuls of its coarse black fur, and the spirit waits as well, oddly polite. A low growl comes from the bear’s throat as he wraps his arms around its thick neck, and its body tenses beneath Valmir, muscles bunching, claws scoring deep into the earth. The spirit points at them, and then its horse springs away, hooves never once touching the ground.

They give chase. Wind tears at Valmir’s skin even as he flattens himself against the bear’s back and hangs on, eyes burning with grit and mouth bone-dry. The countryside blurs on either side of him as they race the spirit through the plains, Masser and Secunda lighting their path. Whoever the horseman once was, they had known how to ride, for even Jerrik’s supernatural speed and strength couldn’t keep them abreast of the horse’s breakneck pace and clever maneuvers; Valmir is so busy trying to keep from being thrown from Jerrik’s back that it takes him some time to realize that the spirit and its spectral mount never let them fall too far behind. The plains begin to swell like cresting waves, giving way to rockier terrain. Jerrik’s claws churn out mud and debris in their wake, his sides heaving, and for a split second, Valmir wonders if he’ll keep running until his heart gives out. If only a collision with the mountain range rising up ahead will stop him from trying to keep up.

They run so far and for so long that by the time they reach the foothills, the sky is beginning to lighten, horizon gone gray and hazy like smoke. Valmir’s world has narrowed to the path before them and the rough fur scratching his arms and face, spurred on by the echo of hoofbeats from up ahead. The path twists one last time, a ribbon unfurled, and flattens into a straight line. From a camp atop a nearby hill, a giant watches them fly past, club mounted on its shoulders while its mammoth herd dozes just below. Warped stone pillars hunch over just ahead, rising up from either side of the road. The horseman slows, mount weaving. Beneath Valmir, the bear’s sides contract, and it lets out an anguished roar.

_“Such an abrupt end to our game…”_

He has no mouth with which to speak, but Valmir hears him all the same. The bear’s claws rip chunks of stone from the dirt, earth churning as it lunges forward, but they’re too late. Horse and rider cross the pillars, into the barren half-moon of the graveyard, and vanish without a sound. The bear loses its footing, and Valmir is forced to throw himself off its back and roll to avoid being crushed when they both go skidding along the ground.   
  
“You oaf!” He picks himself up, fuming, muddy clothes still in hand. “What’s wrong with you? You nearly killed me!”  
  
Jerrik doesn’t answer at first. He picks himself up off the ground, grunting laboriously, and there’s the sickening pop and crunch as his bones rearrange themselves back to human form. Valmir looks around while he dresses himself, taking in the graveyard. There’s nothing there, save the headstones and their flowered attendants, and one black iron tomb standing upright beneath the largest of the three stone arches. A crow cackles at them from a nearby pine.  
  
“What is this place?”  
  
“Do you remember the story I told you?” Jerrik asks. “The first time you saw me turn?”  
  
“Of course I do.”  
  
“Good. Here’s the rest of it.”

 

Where were we?  


Ah, yes. The brothers, reunited at long last. The older of the two was called Kjorn – he could outrun, out-hunt, and out-ride any one of their tribe, and the younger loved him more than anybody else on Nirn. Kjorn had vowed to help his brother break the terrible curse, and so the two of them set off together, searching.   
  
It took some time, but eventually they heard tell of a mage in Morthal named Falion, who was rumored to be researching cures for various magical afflictions. The brothers paid him a visit. Falion was, and still is, a brilliant expert in Conjuration, but even he had his limitations with so little information available. The prospect of a willing test subject was a tempting one, however, and he redoubled his research efforts. Eventually, he found an obscure Nordic text from the Second Era that mentioned something about a corrupted soul gem and otherworldly blood driving out the infection, and thus a deal was struck: if the brothers could bring him a black soul gem and a daedra heart, Falion would attempt a cure.  
  
Naturally, the brothers agreed, seeing little other recourse. But where to find such accursed objects?   
  
Three days later, Barbas came to them.  
  
He came from the east, through the mists and the swamp, and he told them of a coven of necromancers hiding out in plain sight, doing their experiments in an abandoned tower. They were digging up bodies from a graveyard and taking them away, he said. Hamvir’s Rest. Necromancers always had black soul gems. Daedra hearts too, sometimes.  
  
No, the cursed brother said, and turned his back. He would accept no help from the Prince of Bargains. But Kjorn had no such qualms – he had vowed to help his brother, and his soul already belonged to Vile. The younger fought him, raging and pleading, but he would hear none of it. He set off with Barbas at once. Pride prevented the younger from following at first, but eventually his love for his brother won out, and he gave chase, hoping to put a stop to it before it was too late.   
  
He arrived at Hamvir’s Rest half a day behind Kjorn and Barbas, only to find a gruesome scene: his brother, bleeding out on death’s doorstep, fighting wave after wave of undead that the necromancers sent his way. Across the graveyard, their eyes met, and Kjorn mouthed two words as the last of his strength faltered and his axe fell from his hands.  
  
_Do it._  
  
He would have done anything for his brother, and this was no exception. There were few fates worse than spending an eternity in the Soul Cairn. _I love you_ , he said, and picked up the axe. His next stroke separated Kjorn’s head from his shoulders, just before the Soul Trap incantation hit.   
  
His vengeance on the coven was bloody and prolonged, and after the beast had gorged itself on the flesh of its enemies, the younger found himself alone in the graveyard, cradling his brother’s body while Barbas looked on.  
  
"This is your fault."  
  
"Is it?" Barbas scratched his ear, cocked his head. "Kinda seems like it’s yours, for getting yourself cursed in the first place and dragging him into your mess." The boy said nothing, and Barbas panted, long red tongue lolling out of his mouth. "But hey. If you’re interested in making things right, I know a guy…"  
  
Stupid. Foolish, and stupid, to accept, but what else could he do? If it weren’t for him, Kjorn would still be alive. He wrapped his brother’s body and head in furs and oilskins and carried them across the province to one of Vile’s shrines, far from the one he’d grown up worshipping. He had been manipulated, and he had lost. If swallowing that meant getting his brother back, he would prostrate himself a thousand times over. There he knelt at the statue’s feet, and offered the one thing he knew he had of worth – his soul, for his brother’s life.  
  
_Interesting_ , Vile said, the statue’s smile like the edge of a knife. _How very interesting…_ __  
  
  
“My brother was the best horseman in our village. Vile turned him into what you saw, to punish me,” Jerrik finishes, looking out over the graveyard. Each word is measured, calculated to bear a portion of the pain in his voice. It feels wrong to witness something so raw, more intimate than the handful of times Valmir has seen him naked. “We struck a deal. If I can catch my brother before he reaches the spot of his death, Vile will end his torment and release him to Sovngarde. If I can find and return his head, Vile will bring him back to life, in exchange for my soul. I can’t find his head, so I’ve been trying to free him in another way.” He smiles bitterly. “I never could catch him, growing up. Don’t know why it would be any different now.”  
  
“What happened to his head?”   
  
“I’ve been looking for it for years. Vile hid it. I’ve been all over Skyrim, but for all I know, he stowed it somewhere in Black Marsh. Or Oblivion.” Jerrik glances at him. “You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this.”  
  
“I am,” Valmir admits. The idea of Jerrik trusting him with his story is absurd, and yet, here they are, the bittersweet fragrance of nightshade hanging in the air and the tombstones bearing silent witness. Jerrik shrugs.  
  
“You know what I am. You might as well know why.”   
  
It would be easy to use it against him. Every bit of Valmir’s education and upbringing have trained him to exploit moments like these, to take weaknesses and forge them into weapons. Jerrik has handed him everything he needs.  
  
“I’m assuming even this barbaric wasteland is home to some decent mages,” he says instead. “Perhaps back at the College. You could employ their services to locate your brother’s head, assuming their Illusion master is halfway competent.”  
  
Jerrik has turned back around to face Valmir as he’s speaking, and little by little, the disbelief in his expression gives way to a broad smile. This time, when he slings his arm around Valmir’s shoulders, Valmir wills himself not to flinch.   
  
“Not bad, elf,” Jerrik murmurs, and gives him a squeeze. “Not bad at all.”  
  
“Call me elf again and see what happens.”  
  
“My apologies.” Jerrik’s grin doesn’t waver, and he drops his arm to snake around Valmir’s waist, pulling him closer still. “Valmir.”  
  
Recruit, code-breaker, captain, captive, elf – Valmir has been many things, but whatever he is now, he’s not so sure it’s Thalmor. They discarded him, left him to rot, used the information he gathered but never bothered to investigate if he was alive or dead. After everything, all that awaits him if he returns is torture and execution, or reeducation if he can convince them he still has use. Jerrik is a Nord and a beast, but he treats Valmir like an individual, like his equal, and the most astonishing part of all of it is that Valmir’s starting to get used to it. What that says about him, he doesn’t know anymore.   
  
Maybe there’s still time to find out.


End file.
